Indefatigable
by Pippi Longstockings
Summary: First fic so please review! Black Charlie Hammond is missing a daughter and HMFrigate Indefatigable has found a new midshipman. New Chapter 26! Lorna faces a rather unpleasant choice, and will it be too late to escape? R'n'R!
1. Venus returns to the waves

Chapter 1

Becoming a man was not going to be easy, and she had no delusions on that score. The cracked and dirty mirror revealed a ghostly face; pale as a piece of new parchment it shone out from a wild tangle of heavy curls and flyaway strands that formed the untameable wildness of her fringe. Black as the wings of Night itself, it made her face look all the more colourless. The rest of her hair was odd as it fell perfectly straight and shining until the frayed line just passed her shoulder where it had been roughly shorn off. Now, it was roughly gathered with a soiled ribbon at the nape of her neck.

With a frown, she noted that her lips, the only pale colour in her face, did not look in the least masculine – too full. Her jaw too was too soft to be that of a man's and even though it was hardly attractive even on a woman, her nose was too turned up. But even with the smooth porcelain skin, that stark white contrast to her hair, that showed a life of luxury and idleness, she saw with a smile of satisfaction, that she could just pass off as a 16 year-old boy, even if an effeminate one. She would, however, still have to be almighty careful. Her eyes at least were not that of a demure young girl. Hard and steely grey as the ocean itself, they held a restless, ambitious glint, known to flash with a fiery temper, so that only her father could hold her gaze for long as he matched it with one as penetrating of his own. Her father: what had he said when he had found her note?

She was dressed in one of the second-hand, extremely ill fitting uniforms, the landlord had acquired for her from that dark, disreputable little shop at the bottom of Drury Lane. The others were packed neatly into the battered old sea chest that had seen better years itself. She sighed. This was the first time she had ever known poverty, even if it wasn't genuine. She had money enough from her mother but it wouldn't do to arouse suspicion in a new expensive uniform. She looked every inch the nervous new midshipman on half-pay. 

Her breast had had to be bound of course, somewhat roughly by the landlord's wife, and she still wasn't quite used to the uncomfortable tightness around her ribs… But it was something that had to be endured. On reflection, wearing the tight corsets of her expensive gowns had been not much better. Mr Burton and his wife, Fanny, had been so surprised when she had turned up at their humble tavern in the hackney coach and expensive finery, asking for accommodation. They had helped her and broken the law for her and she was very grateful. They would never tell of her secret, even if she had had to pay well to ensure their silence and not all their benevolence was profitless for them. 

She lay down on the patchwork bed, one hand resting gently on her stomach. With a pang she realised that she would miss home in Ireland. The home that she had been trying to escape from for so long. Her father's strong ruling personality, no longer kept in check by her mother's charms and calm, sensible good humour and her sisters' ceaseless inanities and chattering made sure she didn't regret her actions though. It was her mother's death that had made her realise that getting away and enjoying the life of excitement and thrill wasn't just an impossible dream. She shut her eyes and remembered the moment, 1 year ago…

__

A dark room. The smell of death hangs in the air despite the bunches of lavender hanging around the large four-poster bed. Everything seems still and the room empty but the pools of candlelight falling around the pillows reveal the occupants of the room. A woman, she looks old at first glance but closer inspection reveals her to be of middle age though consumption's angry passage through her body has left her frail and aged, lies still in the bed. Her long black hair is without grey as it is plastered to her head with sweat, and her eyes roll listlessly while, desperately, she tries to focus them on the young girl kneeling beside her. 

The girl is 14 or so in age, with hair as black as the figure in the bed. Her grey eyes are sad as she looks at the dying woman. Her jaw is stubbornly set against emotion as she listens to her mother's hoarse voice. 

"My youngest, darling girl… Fate has decreed that I die before bearing a son, if it was not too late for that anyway… But I swear to you now that the lives of all the brothers you could have had are nothing to yours… I love you and I'm sorry to leave you in this way… " She coughed violently. The girl made to interrupt, but her mother cut her short. "Do not fret child… You shall find your place in the world without my security… Your brain is quick and you have a keen wit. You are young, healthy and of ample beauty and your will is strong…Leave Ireland, there is nothing here for you! Take the monies that I leave you on my death and… Make your life, as you will… Pray for me and go with… God…" 

__

Breathing had become a labour and she coughed violently as the consumption invaded her lungs once more. Her daughter's eyes widen and she gasps slightly, takes her mother's hand and presses it to the bodice above her heart. A tear rolls gently down her cheek and her mother's convulsions finally cease. The child sobs, rises to her feet and gently draws her hand over her mother's eyes drawing the lids closed. Slowly and deliberately she walks to the door, opens it and with one final glance to her mother she leaves, quite calm but for her gentle tears, in search of the physician.

Her eyes opened at the bitter memory though the pain had long faded – there were no more tears to be shed on her mother's account. She had loved her dearly and her mother had always returned that love. Her mother was all that had kept those blazing arguments with her father under control. She had had to leave after her death. Still reclining on the bed, she remembered the night a few months later…

__

The girl looked up from her book at the gentle tap on the door. The door to the chamber opened slowly and a woman, ghostly pale in appearance, slipped into the room. She turned and shut the door gently behind her. She curtsies and in the better light afforded in the room than the shadows of the doorway we see she is a servant. The girl rises and walks over. The maid reaches into her apron and wordlessly hands the girl an embroidered purse. The purse is heavy with gold. The girl looks quizzical.

"Mistress… It's from yer Ma… Before she passed away, she bade me give you this when I found occasion…" A heavy Irish accent slurs her words. "Your Ma had her own family income, money yer Da never even knew about. On her sickbed, when she was free of fever she pledged it te you, mistress. T'is only a little of the entire sum… I can send ye the same amount again every six months. You just write to me and give me an address. It would seem yer Ma had a small fortune on her own good father's death…"

The girl's mouth is slightly open. She tries a She tries a stammered thanks, surprise and grief conflicting in her leaden eyes. 

"If Da ever found out what you're doing for me… I cannot thank you enough…"

"There's no need to thank me. It's the least a can do in the memory of yer good Ma. She was a great woman, god rest her soul…" With that the maid departed as silently as she had arrived. The girl stood still for a few moments, appearing to stare into space. She stirred from her reverie and moved over to a large chest beside her bed, already packed with her belongings for travel. 

She had made everything ready to leave that night, but the security and comfort of her birthplace was harder to leave than she had ever imagined and the nagging fear that she wouldn't make it in her new life grew ever stronger. A few further months had passed. She continued with her studies, singing, dancing and horse riding on Calypso, the horse she had called after her father's frigate, all under her father's stern gaze. 

She even persuaded him in a moment of weakness, so very rare to his character, to allow her to learn swordplay, claiming that it was not unladylike but merely so she might defend herself against robbers or bandits (or wicked stable hands). Her father, tired as he was with grief and always having been himself suspicious of the designs men had on his daughter, hadn't had the heart to refuse such a trivial thing. 

She smiled on the bed: her father, the great naval hero! He was a post-captain held in high regard by his Majesty the King's Navy. How she revered him. When she had been so small, he had always seemed so big and heroic. His pride, temper and stubborn resolve, so like her own, made him fierce. But she had never quailed before his Irish temper like her sisters, but had soon learnt to hold her ground. 

They respected each other but there could never be any love between them. Her mother used to exclaim, whilst always remaining respectful to her husband, in exasperation at their tirades that there was no room in the whole of Ireland, never mind under the one roof, for the two of them! 

But the playing field was never equal. She was his daughter. Being younger and female meant she never had had a choice other than to back down to him. That was part of the problem she thought… She was female. Undoubtedly she was his favourite daughter but that just wasn't enough… He wished she was the son he never had and it made him bitter. 

Her gender was and insurmountable barrier for him, but she would overcome it! In this she was resolved: Not to remain idle in childhood, marriage and old age but to leave her cloistered existence in search of adventure. It had always been her dream, to follow her father out to sea. There was no adventure in the stuffy classroom. Hours disappeared as she dreamed of the life at sea that she could never have. 

It had been on her 15th birthday that the dreaming had stopped. It was so sudden that it hardly seemed real in retrospect. One breakfast time, her father had received a visitor. At noon the next day she had been summoned to his study. At one o'clock she knew. A great Irish Lord had asked for her hand in marriage and her father had consented. She had never even met the man! In her outrage her mind was finally set. At nightfall her trunk had been loaded onto a coach, an explanatory note had been left and she had rode with the speed of a broadside towards London… And here she was. 

She remembered the note:

Dear Da,

I am gone and I will not tell you where. No one knows of my whereabouts save myself. I will not be married! I will not be owned! Sold of with a dowry like baggage? Could you even think it, Da? You know me not if you thought I would agree to this injustice. Don't try to find me. All the militia in Ireland couldn't find me now and it would be better for the both of us if I wasn't found. Try to forgive me, Da, you know at least I am too much your daughter to beg for it. Just know that you will never find me… 

L.H.

A sharp knock on the door jolted her upright. "Excuse me… sir." It was Fanny. "Your coach is waitin' te take yer te Spit'ead."


	2. What face lies behind the mask

Chapter 2

The dawn was cold and unwelcoming and yet it was with a shiver of excitement that Lady Lorna Hammond opened her eyes. A shaft of weak light shone through the cracked panes of the small, unshuttered window. She climbed out of bed with no distaste at the time the light showed it to be and went over to the clouded glass, opening the catch and pushing the window open. Leaning on the sill she gazed outwards: Spithead. The salt air was cool on her face as a light wind whipped through the streets. 

It was still quite dark and few souls were abroad so early – all were safe in bed or just awaking. The most activity, she saw, was around the dockyard, where the few early rises were gathered preparing for their daily labours. She smiled. The great, wooden Ships-of-the-Line were an impressive sight to greet her, as they rolled gently at their moorings. Their huge hulls rode the waves as comfortably as a jockey would a horse and the towering bare masts cut up the horizon in a mass of rigging. The frigates too, though not as large, looked like sleeping monsters on a rippling grey bed.

She'd never seen so many ships before. Of course she been on board her father's ship, _Calypso_, once or twice and the small, private schooner in Ireland was a second home, but this? Her breath caught at their rugged beauty. Ever since she had been old enough to read and write she had striven to learn all there was to know about the proud giants of the sea. Even nautical history and law. Lorna was confident – she knew enough not to be found out.

A humoured smile played on her lips at the thought of her situation: The youngest daughter of The Lord Charles Hammond, known to every seafarer in His Majesty's Navy as Black Charlie Hammond, of His Majesty's frigate Calypso, was going back to her roots, and joining the navy.

The grey eyes slipped to clock high in the tower across the water. 5 o'clock. She was due at her first post in 3 hours time. Lorna's smile broadened with anticipation as she turned back into the room. It was bare and Spartan with her dunnage standing forlornly at the foot of the rickety bed. She opened it back on its hinges.

Her hair was coarse and matted from sleep so she reached in for the battered silver brush and began to smooth it back. It was with deft fingers that she plaited it and once more fixed it with the old ribbon. The rough, linen man's nightshirt scratched her bare skin as she pulled it over her head. 

She picked up the roll of white bandage and remembering Fanny's advice, began to wind it steadily around herself. Her fingers were steady though fumbling slightly as she was unsure of what to do. After tying it securely at the base of her bosom she began to don the dark-blue uniform.

It was a strange freedom, being able to move without the billowing skirts around her. After the brocade gowns the stiff naval uniform was strangely comfortable. She tied her neckerchief and pulled the jacket to, carefully drawing the golden buttons home.

Lorna made one final inspection of herself in the mirror leaning unsteadily against the far wall. She saw her self as young James Saunders, cheeks slightly flushed at the prospect of his first post on a frigate. Perfect. Nothing in her appearance was out of place to give her away. She took a few deep, steadying breaths, surprised at her own nervousness. She had never been anything less than confident – this wasn't the time to lose her nerve. _What's real life got that I can't handle, that's worse than my Da? _She asked herself silently. The face in that mirror **was **Mr Midshipman James Saunders and if anyone thought otherwise she would soon know about it. The first day would tell whether her disguise was successful.

Lorna left her room and made her way downstairs to the tavern. She paused at the first floor landing, cleared her throat hesitantly and then beginning again, jaw set and shoulders square, attempting a longer, more masculine stride. She entered the dinghy room without ceremony and seated herself at one of the window tables. Smoke from the previous night's revelries in rum still hung in the air as a haze and she wrinkled her nose at the festering stench. 

A few lingering glances and a raised eyebrow or two greeted the strange young man's entry, but if anyone saw anything too amiss they were extremely adept at hiding it and nothing was mentioned. A portly man in a yellowing apron, with a mop of greasy, white hair waddled over to her table and asked her pleasure for breakfast. She answered him, taking great care to make her voice lower and huskier. It hit her then. What could possibly attract her unwelcome attention more than an Irish accent? Friendship between England and her homeland was wearing thin and Irishmen were distrusted. 

She had been trained in an English accent from birth – that was no difficulty – but… the prospective loss of her native tongue was something that touched her more that she might have thought. Brought up as the daughter of a proud Irish lord, her loyalty to her country and national identity that was in the blood of every Irishman since time was time wasn't so easy to give up as her name and background… She couldn't stop over such a small thing! The idea was insufferable. With a sigh at all she was losing, while gaining her dream she started on her meagre breakfast.

She took her time eating and before returning upstairs to her room, she walked outside onto the, by now, slightly more crowded port. 

"You boy!" She winced. The accent was sharp after her natural brogue. It felt strange. She hailed one of two youths of about 12 years of age, who, whistling, were walking down towards her. It was the smaller of the two she addressed. He had dirty blonde hair, which fringed over his eyes like a curtain almost to touching a small, stubby nose. At the sound of her voice he halted their progress and they both walked up to her. The smaller boy looked at her with surprised curiosity for a moment before saying:

"Yes sir?" She breathed an inward sigh of relief. That odd look on his face had been unsettling. She had almost been sure he had figured her out, but no, her disguise must still be holding true. _But will it work on a crowded vessel of around 200 souls? _She asked herself. She returned to reality with a thump.

"For a shilling will you and your friend carry a sea chest to the port?" She stopped herself from wincing for a second time. She would not get anywhere if unable to bear the sound of her own voice. 

"For a shillin' we'll carry it t' France!" The taller boy, his face a battle field where acne and freckles waged continuous war, piped up with a cheerful cockney accent. Lorna repressed a grin at the sound.

"Come with me then."

***

The salt air whipped at her coat and hair and her eyes were almost shut against the blinding spray. What had previously been a light breeze had matured into a fierce gale. The black oilskin was wrapped tightly around her frame – a weak attempt to keep the elements at bay. Her cocked hat, worn "for and aft" over her black hair was doing nothing to stop rivers of freezing seawater running down her neck.

Where in God's name had this wind sprung from? The day may have begun as cheerless and grey but it had held no portends for this onslaught. A storm wind of this magnitude was rarely seen in Spithead's sheltered anchorage. The tiny row boat was tossed roughly on the waves as it made its slow, laborious, jerking approach to the majestic bulk of His Majesty's Frigate_ Indefatigable _– M'man Saunders' first post. 

Lorna could see her smooth green keel as the ship pitched and rolled on the waves and thanked God and St. Patrick that she did not suffer from seasickness. Even here on storm churned waters, she felt strangely at home – no trace of fear. The boat was lurching alongside the _Indefatigable _now.

With a nimble tread hindered by the heavy oilskin, she swung up the frayed rope ladder and over the side, still being whipped by spray. The wind seemed to lessen in its fury slightly and the roaring of the sea was a little more distant. Lorna straightened up and looked about her.

The slippery deck surface was almost clear. The crew, smartly, being below deck in reasonable comfort. The dark, crowded spaces with low ceilings that were found below decks were a haven of warmth in comparison to above. The only thing she could see was a blurry figure standing in forlorn solitude on the quarterdeck. 

She had come aboard at the stern, nearly at the fo'c'sle, so her passage to the bows was slow and unsteady, having not found her sea-legs yet. She was still used to the firm, even feel of land beneath her feet, but she was not disconcerted at her unsteadiness. Soon she would move with the roll of the ship, though there is only so steady one can be with the conditions they were experiencing at present. Clutching at the neck of the oilskin with one hand and with the other jamming her hat onto her head she climbed onto the quarterdeck and reported.

"Midshipman Saunders reporting to His Majesty's Frigate _Indefatigable_." She saluted the figure, who nodded in recognition. 

"My name is Lieutenant Ecklestone. Welcome aboard. You're the last of the Midshipmen. I'll refer you to the Captain in person – get us below decks, eh?" She smiled and followed him bellow

***

"Enter!" The gruff command came in prompt reply to the Lieutenant's knock. Lorna felt her palms grow moist with sweat as fear began to raise its head. She bit it down: She was not going to be afraid! Ecklestone opened the door and stepped in smartly. Swallowing, almost to dislodge her heart from her mouth, she stepped in behind him.

"The new midshipman, just come aboard, sir."

Sir Edward Pellew, renown for his benevolence, wisdom and keen sense of justice, captain of the 64 gun Frigate _Indefatigable, _looked up from the nautical chart he had been examining with a pair of dividers to see a strange sight.

Standing before him, the door shutting behind him from Ecklestone's swift departure, was an alert looking, if not slightly sodden youth in an oversized oilskin, dripping sea water onto the floor. But that wasn't the strange thing…


	3. Brave new world

Chapter 3

Pellew's eyes narrowed in puzzlement at the bedraggled new midshipman. There was something wrong with the figure before him… He looked the boy carefully up and down, not missing a detail, to ascertain the reason for his discomfort. The boy was young, seeming younger still than the 16 years written on the paper before him, but that was not unusual – many young men looked older or younger than their actual years and it was of no consequence. It was not the boy's ill fitting attire. For most young men, not being able to afford tailored uniforms was hardly a matter for speculation. The boy was quite short he noted but the shoulders were broad and upright and there was no trace of indulgence in victuals, again no irregularity. The Captain examined the face.

Soft face, flawless skin, sweeping black eyelashes, slightly pouted lips…_The boy looks like girl, the boy **is** a girl. _The thought almost made him laugh and the Captain was forced to glance quickly down at the map before him. He looked up slowly, his calm once more seemingly implacable. The two dark eyes staring defiantly out from beneath a breaker of unruly black curls made him forget his jocose thought in an instant. The boy made no indication as to having noticed the Captain's slight lapse in concentration, though she had. Lorna prayed silently he hadn't seen. 

"Midshipman Saunders, come aboard His Majesty's Frigate _Indefatigable _and reporting for duty, sir." The voice was educated and a little husky, almost coming from the back of the throat. 

"You are welcome. I am Sir Edward Pellew, your Captain. I have been just leafing through your papers…"He paused. Lorna drew in a breath as he looked down at her forgeries" And I find all to be in order. So you have a little experience with ships though not with military connections?" She breathed again.

"Yes sir. My father was a hand on an Indiaman, he died of the sweating sickness leaving enough money for me to come aboard as Midshipman, sir." The lie slipped out easily. Pellew nodded, accepting it. 

"I believe that is all, you are our final midshipman to come aboard. Ask a marine to show you to the Midshipmen's birth…"

"Aye aye sir!" She was just turning to leave when he spoke again.

"And you can tell your mess mates that it is like that we sale within the week!"

"Aye aye, sir." She nodded and opened the door, leaving quietly to ask the guard marine directions to her birth…

***

The walk to the midshipman's birth was a revelation for her, and it took all her self-control not to cry out in unashamed horror. Every step she took was one of debauchery and riot. She had never been prepared for this sight. Men shouted and raved, flailing tankers of ale so that the amber liquid flew like sea-spray threw the air and fell to slop on the rough wooden planking. Each man stank of sweat and liquor and many cavorted openly with whores. Lorna paled, her eyes widening before quickly looking away only to find them fixed on some unashamed sodomites in the corner. Every way she turned in the dark, cramped cabin, she saw sin and immorality. She felt almost ill as the ships lurching at anchor weakened her stomach and her mind to her surroundings. The sounds of an out-of-tune fiddle and drunken singing filled the air, as did the foul smoke from numerous pipes as she pushed forward, after the marine. It was with an inaudible sigh of relief that she reached the canvas curtain that marked the corner separated for the use of the warrants. She thanked the marine and closed her eyes for a moment, the forbidden sights swimming before her eyes. She was shocked and that in itself scared her. _I thought I would have been prepared for anything. _She opened her eyes and steadied herself. She stood for almost a minute before she was completely composed and could push back the canvas barrier.

The roar of the men was subdued to almost a murmur here by the heavy curtain and it was through a cleaner air that she found almost a dozen unfamiliar eyes trained onto her. The silence was disconcerting. She quickly pushed all previous horrors to the back of her mind, and summoned her courage again. She would be welcome or she would not…

"Good day, I believe I am one more mess-mate for you, good sirs." She removed her cocked hat and gave an exaggerated bow. She rose pushing a stubborn curl from her eyes, raised an eyebrow and risked a lopsided grin. The silence was broken instantly by the sound of male laughter, shouted greetings and a call for her to seat herself. There was a vacant seat beside a tall, thin young man, with dark hair and smiling eyes and she took the invitation gladly. There was a general call for introductions. Her grin was ever broadening as she forgot any earlier trepidation and let herself be overwhelmed by the unconstrained familiarity. The greetings quickly faded as the competition to be clearly heard was too straining. Once again all eyes were fixed on her. One particularly blue pair were smiling warmly as their owner stood.

"May we be versed as to your name, Mr…?"

"Saunders. My name is James Saunders. And might you good gentlemen own to your names once more for I am afraid that I was too slow to catch the majority of them?" The man standing made the introductions beginning with a portly gentleman at the end of the table, who was identified as Mr Cleaveland. She shook his hand and then the next man's, eventually finishing with the quiet man at her side who answered to Horatio Hornblower. He gave her a hesitant smile. She shook his hand firmly and then turned back to the blonde man making the introductions. 

"I believe you have excluded your good self." He bowed in a similar fashion to that which she had done upon her entrance and promptly replied.

"Kennedy, Archie Kennedy - renown rake and scoundrel of Drury Lane, at your service." She laughed with the others as she clasped his hand too. 

"And now that introductions have been made Mr Saunders…"Cleaveland's voice was lazy and self-confident. "A lively man like yourself can hardly object to entertaining us with a little tale of yourself and I'm sure we have a few in response. Let us get acquainted. And I am sure that I speak for all my fellow mess-mates in welcoming you aboard the _Indy_."


	4. Probing questions

Chapter 4

At anchor and with weather conditions as they were, the Captain did not see fit to order men to their duties that day. Lorna spent an uneventful day with the other men in the birth. She was prepared for the awkward questions about her past to some extent and the lies were ready, but she was uncomfortable. She was not the most devout of Christians but a lie was a sin and could never sit well on her conscience, especially with a character as forthright as hers. Despite the unease she felt with herself she kept up her façade. 

She was asked about her family: She answered as truthfully as she could. His family was involved heavily with the ocean, his father being a senior mate on a merchant vessel. He was the youngest child with three older sisters, all of whom being too frivolous for their own good. While his father was away, they had lived on a nobleman's estate and he had worked a little in the stables. His mother had died of consumption recently and with his father dead too, he was left to support the rest of the family and purchasing into the navy seemed the best option, especially with his love of adventure. He had acquired a decent education from the local parish and no there was no significant lady or ladies that he was leaving behind.

She had tried to make her lies more credible by interspersing her story with jokes of the sister's pretensions and the intolerant nature of their father to their silliness. She almost laughed herself at the way she portrayed her father's scathing attitude to her sisters, who honestly didn't notice, being too wrapped up in themselves and flirting with every man in sight. By the end of her tales she had earned a reputation as the mess' joker and a few men had declared their intention of meeting her sisters.

She listened to stories of the others. Many of them had father's with connections who had gained them positions or had obscure Captains for fathers. Horatio told the story of his father: a strict and pious doctor who was owed a favour by Captain Keen of _Justinian, _and had been instrumental in acquiring his son a position on said ship. She liked Horatio, though he was a little quiet and tended to be wrapped up in his own thoughts, when not taking part in the conversation. According to the others he was a very gifted leader and seaman and would go far if he didn't take himself too seriously. Horatio looked sheepish at this, but did at least have humour enough to laugh. 

Archie was her natural friend. His handsome face always held a smile and his blonde hair made him look almost angelic in its innocence. He was warm and welcoming from the beginning and was quite the quiet joker himself, even though, by his own admission, he wasn't a seaman of Horatio's calibre. He told outrageous stories of his father, a serious clergyman, who when hearing of his son's wild behaviour with gaming rooms and certain actresses at the Drury Lane theatres, immediately sent him to the navy with best wishes for his reform. 

"Best wishes for my reform, I tell you!" She was laughing so hard that tears began to form in her eyes. "But I can't say it has been so bad: I met this bunch of cheerful sods and there wasn't a lot keeping me back home anyway. It was the navy or clerical vestments." 

"I can't imagine you as a vicar Archie – you'd be an awful bore." She smiled.

"My sentiments exactly!"

"But come Archie, what's this about nothing keeping you in London? Weren't those **certain **actresses enough?" A laughing voice threw in. "Mr Kennedy, do not leave us in the dark!" More laughter from the table. Lorna tried to hide her crimson face as Archie replied tartly.

"They were good enough in bed, I'll warrant, but not for much else. Drury Lane girls are far to easy in dispensing their charms for anyone to take their promises too seriously, as you well know! If I fall in love it won't be with a woman of their level." The laughter faded a little at that.

"Come now Archie, you old romantic." Horatio spoke up. "They **were **good enough in bed." That set off laughter anew, from Archie too, while Lorna tried as best as possible to hide her discomfort at the way the conversation was tending.

"And speaking of women," it was Cleaveland's careless drawl again as he put his head around the curtain. "It would seem the ship is in full swing today, since we've been a'port I've not seen such a party." That reminded Lorna.

"And speaking of being a'port, the Captain mentioned we might be sailing before the weeks end." An astonished silence greeted those words. A chorus of cheering went around the table. She grinned at their joy. It was only after the table was settled once more, with matching contented grins on all their faces, that the smile was wiped from hers.

"So what about you and women, Jamie? " She started at Archie's voice.

"Yes!" Chimed in another Midshipman called Heather. "You said that you ain't got a missus at home, but you must 'ave a yarn or two?"

"Erm…"She faltered, her mind had promptly ceased to function. Archie's face held a wicked grin.

"I saw your face go red when I spoke about my girls. Don't even try to deny it!" He had seen her open her mouth to respond. "Haven't you been with a woman?" His voice was teasing. If she had been who she said she was she wouldn't have minded but…

"Of course I have!" She tried to make her voice sound nonchalant, as her brain began to kick in again. Another man called Cooper raised his eyebrows.

"Well?" She tried procrastinating. 

"Well, what?"

"What was she like?" She couldn't do anything but reply. 

"My first time was a few years back, with a girl called…" She needed a name fast! "Lorna! She was called Lorna. She was dark-haired, not very beautiful but…"

"But?" Everyone around her was listening with rapt interest.

"She was a high-born girl." There was a wolf whistle from someone. "It was when I was working on her father's estate."

"Was she any good?" She rolled her eyes at Cooper. 

"Get your brains out of your britches and don't ask me any more questions! Aye, she was well enough." The men laughed at her concession. She saw Archie looking at her oddly. She raised a _well I answered_ eyebrow at him and grinned. He smiled back and she turned to talk to Horatio about the ship.


	5. Prophetic dreams

Chapter 5

It must have been near on midnight when the conversations stopped and the storm began to abate slightly. It was with heavy eyes and many half-stifled yawns that she followed Archie to her hammock, which he had kindly strung up beside his. She was too tired to worry when it came to undressing worry about undressing and besides she had thought that enigma through already. Without thinking she turned to the wall and unbuttoned her shirt. She slid her night-shirt over her head without removing it and only slid her uniform off when she was fully under its flimsy protection. She tried to make it seem like the most natural thing in the world to her, but when she turned around to find Archie standing with his shirt in his hands, there was a question in his eyes.

"I feel the cold easily." She shrugged, underlining the unimportance of her actions. Archie just smiled and continued to undress. The rest of the midshipmen were entering the room with heavy treads and much grumbling, but Lorna found her eyes could not move from Archie's chest: the smooth muscles moving as he went to pick up his night-shirt. She gulped and spun round to her hammock, nibbling on her bottom lip, as his trousers fell from beneath the white cotton. She pulled the ribbon from her hair and climbed up, pulling the rough blanket over her body. Eventually the rustling of bodies stopped and the goodnights were said; Cleaveland blew out the small lamp and the room fell into darkness.

_I'm here, in my hammock, in the Navy, in a ship. I am safe, my secret is safe. I have friends, I have a new life, I have adventure, I have all I ever wanted… Then why, in the name of all that's Holy, can I not get to sleep! _She rolled over in the hammock, it moved uncomfortably under her weight. _Why did I stare at him like that? Why do I feel so strange? _Her thoughts swam in and out of her consciousness as the aching in her limbs and the soft roll of the ship finally claimed her for sleep…

***

__

She was dreaming of Ireland. She was returning home, the prodigal child, and her father was there. The look in his eyes was shock and… fear? He looked older, his hair whiter than ever. She tried to smile but could not. She knew she hated the man before her and she knew he had betrayed her and hurt her. She looked away, wanting to see anything but him. She looked at her hand. A golden band encircled her finger and she looked at it oddly. She felt odd; dressed in strange high-waisted gown. She felt so bare in the thin silk, so unprotected. The hidden knife would protect her, the cold metal pressed against her skin. She felt warm breath on her face. Startled, she looked up just as lips brushed hers. She heard him moan. The image was dissolving… 

The moan continued, seeming louder all the time. She awoke to see others, bleary eyed and uncomprehending, waking around her. The moaning was almost a scream and Archie began to shake violently in his hammock. He threw himself from the canvas and fell to the floor with a heavy thud, and continued to convulse on the floor. Lorna clambered as fast as she could to his side, to find Horatio climbing down too. Archie's eyes were bloodshot and unseeing as they rolled into his head and his sweat soaked body was writhing in spasms on the floor. His mouth opened and shut as the unearthly sound continued out. It took their combined strength to hold him still.

The fit left him as swiftly as it had arrived. The moan caught in his throat and he fell back lifeless and still to the deck. She pushed some of his damp hair from his eyes and turned to Horatio. Her voice was calm when she spoke but her eyes were wide in fear.

"What was that? What happened to him?" Horatio said nothing for a moment, staring unblinkingly at his peaceful friend. "Horatio!" 

"I thought they had stopped. We all did." Horatio's voice was barely a murmur, he seemed to be speaking to himself. "When we left _Justinian_, when we left **him**, he stopped having them... Archie has these fits when there's something… frightening him." Horatio chose his words carefully as he met her eyes at last. "This is the first in three months. He must have been having nightmare…" Lorna knew when not to press it. She nodded and gave Horatio a slight smile.

"Me must get him back into his cot." The limp figure was lifted awkwardly back into the hammock and Lorna drew the blanket up to his chin, whilst Horatio reassured the others. She gave him one last look as he lay once more asleep, and moved back to her bed. It was a long time listening to his even breathing, before she herself fell into a calm slumber.


	6. Touching heaven

Chapter 6

The harsh resonance of the ship's bell called the men of His Majesty's Frigate _Indefatigable _into the new day with unsympathetic vivacity. Archie had barely opened his heavily ringed eyes to find a worried James standing over him, already dressed. He managed a weak smile.

"You certainly didn't take your time." The boy gave his usual disproportionate grin and stood back while the stocky man swung his legs out of the canvas sheet. 

"It's all that spare energy."

"Don't worry, a day in the navy will take some out of you."

***

The skies were blue today, with brilliant white puffs of cumulus cloud dotting the horizon. Not a trace lingered of the previous day's fierce storm. The midshipmen split up in search of their division and Lorna was left with some encouraging smiles, to search for Mr Ekklestone in regard to her duties. The man with a lined face, betraying his age and small chances of promotion, stood on the quarter deck, looking out to see with a glass. She cleared her throat by his side.

"Excuse me, sir, but I was wondering as to my division?"

"Yes… Yes, of course." He walked to the quarter rail and blew a long, shrill peal on his pipe. The crew, who had previously been busy about their routine chores, immediately ceased their activities and turned their expectant faces up to the Lieutenant. 

"Those men posted to divisions until awaiting further orders, should form up as a separate division now. All others, resume your duties!" Swiftly 15 men detached themselves from the working body and stood in double rank on the port side. Ekklestone turned to her. "There you go, Mr Saunders. You have 10 minutes to get acquainted and then deploy them as you see fit."

"Aye aye sir."

They were not a very distinguished group. In fact, 'group' would have been rating them too highly. 'Rabble' was a more suitable term. Lorna looked each man up and down, aware that she to was being subject to close examination. She kept her head high and all emotion from her face, disguising well all distaste for their general slovenliness. She knew that these few moments were critical. She moved along the ranks asking names, every time adding both name and face to memory. 

She stood back from them and gave an expressionless smile. 

"I am Midshipman Saunders, and I am to command your division. I respect your experience as sailors, but as I respect I also have standards that must be adhered to. Any man who does not do his duty or is found in anyway acting against the Articles of War, will have me to deal with, and don't think for a minute that I will be lenient on you because you are my division. I do, however, expect you to do nothing that would warrant reprimand. Very well, to your duties. I want those sheets manned and the sails to be fully re-reefed before the inspection, make sure you sheet-home securely." The men made to move away, she called them back. "And make me proud to be in the English navy!" The men grinned and launched themselves up the rigging with footing as sure as any sailor's. 

She watched as they leapt nimbly from one ratline' to the next - almost balletic if it had not been for their toughened postures and bulging muscles. She smiled at their willingness to obey her, but knew that she had to check their labours for herself. The masts seemed so high - wooden giants towering over the vessel. Lorna had never had the greatest head for heights, but neither was she afraid. _What am I afraid of? _The thought was so conceited, she was ashamed to have thought it, but all thoughts left her as she placed her foot firmly on the bottom of the rigging and pulled herself upwards. 

The maze of ropes held firm as she swung higher, growing all the more intrepid. Breezes blew around her and the thought to look down did not enter her head until she reached the first yard. She stopped there for a moment, but decided to forgo the pleasure of looking until she was beside her Topmen on the To'gallants. The wind became stronger and the ropes appeared to thin as she got higher and higher. The exhilaration of danger filled her as she swung still further up. She reached the top spar and looked down.

The sight was breathtaking. The great expanse of deck looked so isolated from up there. Men scurried about the ship like miniature clockwork toys. There was no fear of the drop. She felt almost touching the clouds as she looked up once more, her eyes sweeping over the blue carpet as it stretched to a golden horizon - and angel spreading her wings to touch the gates to heaven. It was grudgingly that she returned her eyes to the men working furiously, balancing on almost impossibly thin ropes, on either side of her. 

"This yer first time up 'ere, begin' yer pardon, sir?" A small mouse-like boy who had piped up to the name of Williams had spoken. She just gave him a broad smile and nodded before stepping on to the smooth wooden bar that could only accommodate one foot at a time at 200 feet above certain death should those feet slip, and had braver souls than herself ashen faced and nauseous. 

She walked along the spar, determined to keep perfect balance in front of her more experienced subordinates. She stopped every so often to inspect a knot or make sure the reefing was equal all the way along the yardarm, so when the ship was to set sail the great canvas walls could be furled as promptly as the Captain should wish it. She gave praise where it was due and hinted with a cough or raise of the eyebrow when anything was substandard. Lorna silently praised her father's extensive nautical library for enabling her this chance to prove she was as good as any man.

It was a half an hour of inspecting every spar on the Mainmast for any errs, and delivering of praise and censure (though there was not a lot of the latter to deliver on a ship of Pellew's standard), that decided in the eyes of the men that their new Midshipman would do well enough. His obvious love of the ship and knowledge of the way she ran was enough to enough to prove his competency. His courage in battle was yet to be examined, but for now there were no doubts and the sailors swung down to the deck, contented.

The shrill blast of a ship's whistle sounded over the ship and again all eyes were fixed on the Quarterdeck. The Captain was standing there, his imposing figure held a distinguished air as he surveyed the ship, in silence. Every man waited in anticipation... 

"We set sail within the hour men!" That was all he needed to say. A wild roar rose around her and for a moment Lorna was too shocked to do anything. _I am going to sea. I'm leaving! _Her voice rose to cheer alongside her shipmates at the feeling of elation spread throughout the ship. The Captain waited with a slight smile on his lips for the noise to die down, and the men to charge at their duties again, each man smiling, before speaking once more.

"And would all officers, commissioned and warrant, attend to me in my cabin directly." 


	7. A Godfearing man is wise indeed

Chapter 7

The Captain's cabin was hardly of grandiose proportions, but compared to the chicken-coop-like conditions found in the midshipmen's birth it seemed to have the capacious feel of an abandoned mansion and Lorna could see her fellow mess mates glancing furtively about them with jealous eyes. It was strange, she reflected, how attached one could get to the Spartan comforts the _Indy. _The opulent existence she had enjoyed in Ireland seemed extravagant and wasteful now

The ceiling was low and beamed and it took most of the men's concentration on back-hunching not to not knock themselves out. She mentally praised the Lord who had watched her birth that she had not grown past 5"3.

The officer's shuffled uncomfortably around the Captain's desk, each craning for a better view of the map weighted before them. It showed the English Channel in all its glory, flooding between the inked shores of Britain and France, from the icy Atlantic above. Even on paper it was a fantastic sight. Pellew cleared his throat. 

"Gentleman," the babble of excited voices gently faded as the Captain began to speak. "As you may have gathered from my former announcement to the crew, we are under orders to set sail at last. We are at war, and his Majesty King George and his Admiralty has deployed the fleet. 

"We are not planned for any pre-designed conflict, but are merely to beat up and down the channel in search of the enemy and in the event of such an encounter we are to act accordingly and aggressively. There is said to be action reported particularly around the shore battery of Blaine and that, gentlemen, is where we are first headed." 

The excitement was palpable, as they were dismissed. Tout rushed to their stations to prepare for getting underway. 

"Man the capstan!"

"Loose the Tops'ls!" The orders rang out all around as the ship was transformed. Leisurely duties became den's of energy as sails were loosed and billowed free above Lorna's head as great walls of canvas swelling in the breeze and the great weight of the anchor appeared from the sea like a great demon releasing them from the port. They were leaving - the corpulent wooden bowels of the ship flying of the waves with the grace of a great swan. And all faces were turned to the bows as every man searched the horizon for their destiny.

*

"To sea at last, eh?" Archie's smile didn't seem to reach his eyes, but Lorna and Horatio were too excited to heed it. The crew had been in a state of riotous glee for most of the night now, and many of the mids had given up on sleep.

"Yes! To fight for your country and maybe even die for it, what greater and more divine cause is there on earth?" The laughter was simultaneous and uproarious. Horatio simply looked bewildered. "What did I say?" Lorna could barely reply between wheezes.

"Trust you… Horatio… to be… so… damned… noble! And the worst… thing is… that," Lorna paused to draw in a few fortifying breaths, as Archie calmed himself to a chuckle. "You mean it!" She gave him an apologetic smile as Horatio turned very pink and looked discernibly ruffled. He puffed out his chest to retaliate.

"And would you not die for such a worthy thing?" The laughter stopped and Lorna's tilted grin graced her features once more.

"Dear Horatio, it is a noble thing to fight for your country, but believe me I have no intention of dying for it and neither should you! What use are you to the navy as a dead hero? Or for that matter a pious cynic! And I'm a catholic that's talking." She poked him markedly in the chest. Horatio gave a few uncertain shakes of the head before conceding the point, and allowing himself a sheepish smile. "That's better!" The distant tolling of the ship's bell could be heard through the decks. Horatio sighed.

"I'm afraid it's my watch, sirs. I'll see you later." It was dutiful footsteps that bore him away. Lorna looked at her remaining companion.

"What's up Archie, you look pensive?" She was serious now. Archie paused a few seconds before replying.

"Does he really mean it, Jamie?" Archie's voice was quiet. "How can he talk so, be so brave? How can you? I think on battle and death and… and I… I'm **afraid** Jamie. Ashamed to admit it I am afraid!" He turned away from her, shame-faced. " I'm a coward. Surrounded by men like you, can I be anything less? How can you not feel fear!" His voice was anguished. "Why can **I **not feel fear!"

Lorna sat in stunned silence for a good few minutes, and it was with a soft voice that she spoke.

"Archie… No one cannot feel fear, not least I! Fear is something inescapable and as necessary to our lives as oxygen. With fear comes caution, with fear of others and ourselves we will win this war!" She paused, carefully choosing her words. "You must not dwell on fear and death. Do not imagine it nor question it and you will not fear it. Imagination is a gift to be used for better things, Archie. Horatio may not fear the devil, but he sure as hell fears his God and his King" She looked him in his eyes. "Courage is not a lack of fear, just a means to control it. . And Archie? A man who cannot feel fear or hate, cannot truly feel happiness or love…" The ship's bell signalled her turn on the watch. She turned at the curtain and smiled at him. "You, sir, are nought but a hop'less romant'c" 

Archie did not speak of his confession to Lorna, when Horatio returned, nor of Lorna's Irish accent. The conversation was of reefs and tackles as above on deck Lorna began the monotonous pacing along the great frigate as it ploughed onward on an inky sea towards an ever approaching dawn. And her mind was restless with thoughts: 

__

What am I afraid of? I can't remember having felt fear. No fear of my father, no fear for my mother as she left to be with God, no fear of God as the priest's sermons intoned of his great power and terrifying glory and no fear now. Nothing. I must fear something! Can **I **_be the one to feel nothing, no love? I MUST fear something!_


	8. A brotherhood formed in secrets

Chapter 8

In the weeks that followed, as Captain Pellew decided to take a tour of the Channel before seeking direct action, the nightmares grew worse. Almost every night Archie would scream, gibber and shake in his sleep, falling from his hammock again and again. And almost every night Lorna would, roughly hauled from her dreams, jump to his side and calm him, putting him back to sleep, only to receive stubborn denials to every time she asked the cause of his unrest.

The other midshipmen were no better. She knew they knew what was wrong and would not tell her, no matter how she demanded to be told. 'His past plagues him' or 'he suffered more than the rest for us'. And she would have to only satisfy herself by brushing the damp hair from his troubled forehead and tell him over and over that he was 'all right now' and 'whatever had hurt him had gone'. But it could not continue and after Archie suffered a particularly afflicted night, she could stand the ignorance no longer. 

"What ails you? I will not stand your prevarication much longer, so you should save yourself the time and answer me now!" She fixed him with accusing eyes. He looked away. "Every night now, you have these fits! It scares me Archie! You said that I do not fear, but I do. I fear for you! It is as though you are visited by daemons, screaming out in your sleep! I cannot stand it much longer!" She was glad to have got him alone in the messroom. Her voice demanded an answer, but Archie just defiantly glared back and his pallid blue eyes flashed with anger.

"Who do you think you are to demand my secrets! God knows, your hiding enough from me, with your Irish accent, a past that you just can't elaborate on and your mysterious noble lady!" She was shocked at the anger in his voice. He continued, his voice quiet and saturated with fury. "What goes on in my head is my affair and don't you ever presume otherwise again!" Lorna's own temper woke at this, she tried to stop herself but the violent retort shot out with the venom of a snake.

"How dare you speak to me like that!" The Irish flooded out as the dam of her self-control gave-way to her Irish temper. "I only ask why your precious secret drives you half mad, why it keeps us awake night after night, why every morning you look to have seen Death himself! What goes on your head may be your affair but I had thought myself your friend. Or is that just another of my undesired presumptions? You are nothing but a fool and a simpleton, and I despise you for your fear! For your fear of your dreams and your fear of me! You are right, you are a coward." With that she hurled back the chair and strode from the room. 

*

It had taken an hour of angered pacing and undeserved berating of her division, who simply maddened her more with their sympathetic glances, before she was sufficiently calm to be ashamed of her harsh words and Archie finally gathered the nerve to approach his comrade. She saw his coming on deck and her cheeks coloured instantly in embarrassment of her temper. He was still hesitant as he made is way, seemingly casual, towards her. She moved to the bulwarks and tried to concentrate on the horizon, and not on the figure standing right by her side. He cleared his throat humbly. 

"James?" Lorna turned to at look him directly in the eyes. As repentant as she was, no matter of pride-bending would allow her to show it, without him having done a suitable amount of apologising before hand. 

"Yes, Mr Kennedy?" He at least had the integrity to meet her gaze.

"I'm sorry." 

"I accept your apology and…" She managed a stiff smile. "And as much as it dents my pride to admit it, I'm sorry too. You have your secrets and I have mine." The smile turned to her grin as Archie smiled back.

"I'm a heartless cad and you're too good a friend for me to have said that to."

"Too right I am!" She looked a little abashed for a moment. "You didn't take what I said about being a coward seriously did you? I only said it in anger…" Archie interrupted before she could say anymore.

"Things were said that shouldn't have been and we should both just forget them, there's no point in dwelling on a regretted action…" It was exactly at this point during their sentimental reconciliation that Horatio stormed angrily up to them, red in the face, and wailed,

"Those damn rogues, contemptible wretches the lot of them! Do you know what Simpson's rebellious bastards have been up to? There time off duty and what in shit's name they do? They gamble and they riot in their sick little games. Rats! Rats I tell you! I found the undisciplined, heathen barbarians killing rats with their bare teeth for bets! It was repulsive! I have never been so horrified. I've let them off this time, but I despair! I really despair!" They stared at him in silence.

"Horatio…" Lorna finished Archie's sentence.

"Are you feeling quite all right?"

"Yes, yes, why shouldn't I be?" Horatio's response was flustered.

"It's just… that's the first time I've heard you swear…"

*

The argument forgotten almost as abruptly as it had begun, the weeks continued almost uneventfully. As Portsmouth and whatever past he had had there, drifted further to windward, Archie's fits lessened and his friendship and camaraderie with Lorna grew a pace. Horatio, too, became a great friend but he was always too reserved for her to really open up to. The number of times she had wanted to blurt out her secret to Archie, the number of times she had only been a few words away from revealing her true self, it sometimes frightened her. 

Her love grew for him daily, though the thought never even crossed her mind that she would ever reveal to him her secret. He made her laugh and it often crossed her mind that should she ever be a woman again, she would love him as a woman does love a man. But in her constant role as a man the thought that she did indeed love him, never even crossed her mind. She was even beginning to think of her feminine self as an altogether different person. And as his strength returned as the fits left him Archie became her brother and her greatest friend.

Lorna was safe in her knowledge that she had two true friends in the honourable, dependable Horatio Hornblower and the witty, kind Archie Kennedy. Life out to sea was more delightful and home to her than the stately home in Ireland had ever been.


	9. Among the dead, fear wakes at last

Chapter 9

It was said that the dawn called an evil wind from the North and on it, they said, flew a Bringer of Death; or so it seemed to the helpless crew of the _Indefatigable_, when the 74-gun ship-o-the-line _Lucille-Mariette _bore down on the impotent vessel from the windward. The deck became a teeming mass of men dashing to their posts to steer her clear, while casting fearful glances to the portside - checking to see the rapidly decreasing distance of water between the two ships. It had begun as a mere dot on the horizon, barely noted by the lookout posted from her division. But the dot had grown steadily larger until now it appeared as a giant evil spirit, bringing her guns to bear. 

The first broadside came swiftly with a whistle as the balls plummeted from the sky sending splinters and blood flying across the planking, all around her. It was no use running now. They had to turn and fight, though greatly outnumbered with both men and guns. A ball ripped through the canvas sail. The Captain's voice came loud and clear from the quarterdeck where he stood in deep concentration with a glass tucked into the crook of his arm.

"Mr Saunders, have that sail taken in if you please, before she beats herself to death with the tackle." Lorna yelled back an affirmative and immediately sent the hands aloft to furl the damaged sail. The men scrambled up the rigging, swaying precariously on the ratlines as every fibre of the ships timber shuddered against the next onslaught and the ship reeled from its own deadly salvoes that it spat across the water at the Frenchmen. Archie and Horatio were below with the guns, no doubt. 

The ships were alongside each other now and the _Lucille-Mariette _was turning - they were going to be boarded! From the corner of her eye, Lorna saw the great crates of cutlasses and axes being dragged from below. Her men were needed on deck.

"Yardarm there!" She bellowed up. "Prepare to be boarded. Look lively and grab some weaponry! Now, now, now!" They didn't need more warning. Every man was swinging down like lightning. A dozen pairs of feet hit the deck and ran to receive their pikes, pistols and daggers. The boarding came but a few moments later. A swarm of foreign bodies came hurling over the sides with a barrage of French so filthy as to make her cringe, and straight into the crew of the _Indy,_ armed to the teeth, who came running from all directions and swarming up the ladders from the gun decks. 

There was riot. The sounds of metal on metal, hurled insults in French and English, the report of powder and the stampeding footfalls across the deck. Lorna didn't think; pistol in one hand and sword in the other she plunged into the fray. There was no time to dwell on the death, the life force drained from every man she plunged her sword into. It was simply a fight for survival and the adrenaline took over. She barely felt it as a blade slashed across her forehead. She saw Horatio fighting like a madman near the fo'c'sle, biting his lip in concentration. Archie she didn't see, but judging from the continued booming and clouds of smoke billowing out from the gun ports, he was still below with the canon or no, perhaps she saw him beside Horatio, beating at a man's head with a pistol butt; it was all so indistinct. She didn't know what she saw. The gash she had gained on her forehead was throbbing and clouding her mind. 

There was one clear memory, though. She remembered the Captain, with his guns in hand firing at the French, but then stopping, each pistol empty and just moving to his sword hilt as a huge, tattooed frog ran towards him, rapier in hand. She remembered thinking, _he won't draw in time, _she remembered running, she remembered beating the blade away and standing before the Captain. And then she remembered standing there, mouth agape, sword thrust through the man's stomach, as he fell. His sword had fallen too, where he had lunged before he struck. She remembered the blade falling, slicing through the thin fabric of her shirt beneath her open jacket, slicing through the bandage. She remembered the Captain's eyes widening in shock as she strove to cover her chest, pulling the coat closed and then almost running away from his accusing eyes, to face another opponent.

She also remembered the cheering as the crew of the _Indy _flooded the Frenchman's decks, as the victory was theirs and the British ensign was raised proudly above the body-strewn deck. And she remembered her heart sinking her breast as she thought of the horror in Sir Edward Pellew's brown eyes. 

***

She expected to hear his voice any minute calling her to the quarterdeck. Showing all the men her secret unashamedly. She could imagine the horrified faces, the shocked expressions. The hurt as Archie and Horatio saw her humiliation. That hurt her most: the thought of Archie's warm eyes refusing to look at her as she stood there in defiled. She imagined being sent home to England in disgrace, forced back to her father or to earn pittance for a living in some whorehouse. Her stomach turned as the terrifying thoughts bombarded her aching skull.

She knew what she was afraid of, now. She was afraid of the shame, the humiliation, the betrayal felt by every man, especially the ones she really cared about, people's disappointment in her, how she had betrayed their trust and their loyalty. What would they think of her? And worst of all the torture of returning to England - forced back into skirts and corsets or to live by doing things she could barely imagine. She felt ill. She carried the wounded to the sick birth and obeyed the Lieutenant's as they tried to patch up the injured ship automatically. Her mind simply replayed her fate to her over and over again; each time more degrading, humiliating and painful. She even felt tears begin to well in the corner of her eyes as she thought of the life she had found here…

But it never came - the Captain's voice ringing above the men's as he called Midshipman Saunders to him, and demanded her real name. It never came. The images in her mind grew worse, she barely even noticed the poultice applied to her wound. The fear mounted and mounted until it was almost a scream in her head. Soon it took all her efforts just to keep back the shamed sobs that she felt well up in her throat. How could she have been discovered? How could malign Fate be so cruel? She leant over the side and tried to throw up, but the retching just made her head spin. At least her injury meant she did not have to explain her erratic behaviour. She leant limply against the rail. She had not seen Archie or Horatio since the battle, they were below seeing to the canon and the wounded. She would not have been able to face them, without dissolving into weak, cowardly tears. She berated herself a hundred times for her cowardice there on that rail. 

And it was there, leaning limply over the side, that Cleveland found her - it had been almost six hours. 

"The Captain's asked to see you in his cabin, Jamie." Lorna shut her eyes and breathed deeply for a few moments, before straightening up. Pure terror rose its ugly head to swallow her as she managed a weak reply. She barely sensed anything now:

"Very good, I'm on my way…" It was a slow, forcedly calm series of footsteps that bore her to the Captain's door. Resigned and expressionless she raised her fist to knock feebly thrice upon the door. 


	10. The truth is revealed

Dear Reader: I am experimenting with some switching in character viewpoints. Up until now it has been a third person narration, but I will have a go using first person narration via Lorna and maybe a bit of Archie. I hope it works out. *crosses fingers* r 'n' r before I am forced to beg. *begs*

Chapter 10

"Enter!" Never had such a simple word been so dreaded as had I never been so terrified; indeed I believe I had gone past terror into a kind of numbness. My mind was almost incapable of thought. Even being afraid terrified me. You must understand that I had never felt true fear, I didn't understand it and the very idea of an emotion flooding my veins and rendering me out-of control of my own mind terrified me. I was almost completely unfeeling as I pushed the door before me, my face must have seemed like a death mask looking upon my own destruction.

I found Captain Pellew standing with his back to me, gazing from the window, seemingly completely immersed in his thoughts. The silence was fraught with emotions but I could just stare at him, my lips automatically formed the words:

"You wanted to see me sir?" He turned very slowly, not flinching under my cold gaze. In my fear, my pride at least had not deserted me. He seemed older to me then; the first strands of silver in his auburn tresses seem all the more prominent and his eyes looked deeper, sadder.

"I feel an utter fool." I was surprised at that, I had expected something else. His voice was gentle and un-condemning, not the anger and disappointment that had replayed itself in my head over and over again as I imagined this confrontation. Indeed, he sounded almost pitying as he spoke to me, perhaps pitying me that I was born a woman, perhaps that I had been found out, or perhaps as he foresaw the punishment for my crimes - his mind conjuring images as violent and degrading as my own. "Six months at sea and you managed to keep this… secret? I never even suspected… and your messmates? You lied to them all." He looked wearier as he walked towards me. "A woman! Never in all my years as a seaman have I ever…" His voice railed off again as he searched for the right words. He brought his eyes directly in line with mine. 

"You know what I should do with you? I should reveal you to the men… I should send you back to your family in disgrace… I should… I don't even know who you are, in the Lord's name. What is your name? What is your family? Never in my life have I not known what in God's name I am to do!" My mind had only really started to register what was going on then; that he wasn't angry, that I should be brave - that I should not fear him. I found voice to answer his question.

"You know my father, sir. Lord Hammond of His Majesty's Frigate _Calypso_." I saw his face pale at that, but plunged ahead nevertheless. "I am the youngest of his daughters: Lady Lorna Hammond." He was silent and I felt emboldened. "Sir, do not send me back - you cannot send me back to that place. **Please**, do not send me back!" For this my pride allowed me to beg, for I was at the Captain's mercy: I knew it and so did he.

"Do you realise the position you have put me in?" His voice was almost inaudibly quiet now. "A woman in the Royal Navy, a serving midshipmen for six months undetected, no less! And the daughter of a fellow Captain, one of distinguished reputation I might add, and a wealthy Irish Lord while you're at it! To send you home would be a disgrace, to keep you here would to throw the Articles of War, my commission, and all the regulations I stand for… TO THE WIND!" I heard him vent all his frustration and wretchedness in those last three words. I did not even flinch, though I still felt my fear gnawing away inside me, again. It took all my resolve to suppress it once more.

"What would you do if you could not be at sea? If you could not fight for your country?" I don't know why I had said that; it sounded foolishly desperate even to me. But I was desperate. He looked at me sharply.

"What I would do is of no consequence! I am no woman!" That silenced me, though I could see in his eyes he was softening, that he understood.

"So what exac'ly do ye propose to do with me, sir?" I didn't need the British accent now, though it almost seemed natural. I slipped back to my comfortable Irish lilt. He sighed and turned back to the window.

"I honestly don't know…" 

We just remained like that. Ages crawled by as we stood in respective silences. He simply stood, his hands clasped behind his back, staring at the grey mists that hung over the channel, thinking. I could see the _Lucille-Mariette _floating close-to. I concentrated on the British ensign as it flew with the clouds - anything to distract me. I suppose it was slightly ironic that the Captain would turn round to see such a sight; standing tall and proud with my eyes fixed firmly, and unblinkingly, upon the cross of St. George. He smiled then, I saw it vanish from his face as I turned to look at him.

"Is there anythin' that can be done?" I was frank, yes, but it was hardly auspicious to prolong the agonising tribulation. I was glad that he was of a similar mind, and answered with similar forthrightness. 

"Become a spy." My eyes near popped from my sockets at that. I thought to myself for a moment that he was joking, but it was hardly a matter for jesting.

"A spy?" I was mentally incapable to do more than echo him though I began to hope - I dared to hope as I had not done since that fateful cut of the sword..

"Yes, for the Admiralty. Become a spy for your country." He waited for a response but I remained mute. "You are a woman, and as such can work yourself easily into confidence, you have shown yourself to be hardly unqualified in the art of deceit and disguise…" I could not help but blush at that. "You are of noble family, and as such I imagine you are versed in foreign tongues - your English for example being infallible?" He paused to prompt me to reply. I nodded slowly - I must have been of particularly slow wit for I was finding everything almost incomprehensible, though I was still a little overwhelmed by first the skirmish and then the fear, and now this?

"Aye, I speak fluen' French, Spanish, English an', o' course, Irish. I can get by with my Italian an' my Prussian is pretty basic. Women of my station seem to be conditioned into fittin' into any society, foreign or no!" 

"There you go then, you have the language and also an acquaintance with his Majesty's Navy and the arts of naval practice, that you could do it!"

"But you canno' just offer me somethin' like this! This is a burden of duty of to much import for you t' bestow."

"Indeed, I'll have to clear it at the Admiralty and believe me they won't be happy but… I can try." He permitted himself a small smile then. "But do you think you are fit for this… this responsibility? You know the punishment that would await you on capture, and you know the dangers involved. Is this something you would rather consider before taking on?" He even needed to ask it of me? An impulsive, Irish nature like mine?

"I would be proud to fight for my country, and for m' King! And if this is the only way I can do it then I s'ppose it'll have to be! Pray do n't think me frightened for m'self." 

"Believe me, I do not, sir… that is to say ma'am…" His voice became quieter, so as I barely heard it. "And I must admit I'd do the same in your shoes…" 

"Sir, what is to be don' now?" 

"We must sail back to Portsmouth," I opened my mouth but he continued heedless. "Where you will be brought before a Lord of the Admiralty. I, personally, will speak for you and I'm sure they will come to… see my point of view. As to the men, we will say we must return the _Lucille-Mariette_ to port. She is after all a prize too important for a Lieutenant - I hardly need speak of the consequences if she were to be recaptured. That should be reason enough to calm the crews discontent. The meeting with Admiralty will be brief - you will accepted or you will not - and if the conclusion is the desirable one you will return with me aboard, no questions asked. I hardly need add that utter secrecy will be required throughout. You will only speak if ordered to do so, am I understood."

"Aye aye, sir!"

"Good. Dismissed!" I saluted curtly and walked out only to collide with a hunched figure with his ear pressed to the door. He sprang back panicked. 

"Archie! What in God's name are you doing man?"


	11. Tides of secrets

Hey peeps: I know I've already covered this bit but… here it is with a different angle: and it is v. important to the story that we know about Archie. So sozzie if it's a little tedious going over well-trodden ground… But enjoy all the same and r 'n' r !!!!! I need ur reviews and encouragement! I need ideas. I need anything u have to offer coz after all it is all about u - the readers!

Chapter 11

The great shadow of the _Lucille-Mariette _on the horizon had driven him below, and it was panicked adrenaline that had taken control of Archie's body as time after time he called the guns to 'Reload!' The black iron monsters jumped around him, spewing flames into the swiftly approaching Nemesis. Through the gun-ports and wreaths of smoke clinging to the air he could just see the ominous flashes from across the water. His were ears still ringing from the exploding powder around him and the sound of his own voice bellowing orders, and he could not hear their canons' distant booming, nor could he see the soot encrusted shells falling towards them. His first sight of death came with the deck exploding beside him, the splinters scattering in all directions, being thrown to the floor and the blood blinding him. The last thing he remembered before his mind went numb with fear was the screaming about him.

A rough hand pulled him to his feet and Horatio's voice barked above the wails of agony:

"Reload! You there - take them to the sick birth! Fire!" He felt himself being shaken. "Archie! Archie! It's not your blood man! You're unhurt. Archie, I'm needed on deck. They need you here Archie! Snap out of it man!" Archie wiped the crimson fluid from his eyes and stared blankly at his frantic friend. He could only manage to weakly shake his head, eyes wide in terror. He could not continue - the screams rang in his ears as he saw the canon-ball rip through that gunner's body. Horatio saw his look and shook him fiercely again. "It is your duty to the ship and your men! This is not the time!" Archie continued to shake his head Horatio was forced to slap him once, hard, about the face and throw him at the guns. 

"RELOAD!" Jerked back to reality, Archie's voice rang out over the sound of shot ripping through timber and flesh. He stopped listening and kept the guns firing. He could hear the battle overhead but fear consumed him and he yelled again and again to fire, his feet begging him to run but his mind would not let him move from the spot behind the guns.

He would not even turn as a voice spoke called behind him.

"Sir! Mr Hornblower's respects but you're needed on deck. We've been boarded! Leave me in charge here, sir." Mathew's voice seemed so oddly calm. He spun automatically around to face the smaller man. 

"Very well Matthews! Hand me you're cutlass there!" He had grabbed the weapon then, pulled up several of the frenzied gunners and ran to the stairs. He would not let himself think on it! Almost tripping over his own feet as they scrambled on deck, Archie plunged into the riotous melee. 

***

The battle had found him tired and disorientated as he fought man after man in the desperate struggle for survival. It was an almost reckless joy at their approaching victory that had carried him over the water and onto the _Lucille-Mariette'_s prized planking. But the battle was over and all the emotions and adrenaline had fled his body, leaving him sick and confused. 

He sat down on the _Indy_'s deck and pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his head in his arms. He had killed with canon and seen men killed for the first time, within minutes of each other but neither could compare with killing a man, one on one, on the end of his sword. The way it had entered him so smoothly, the way his eyes had widened in horror before suddenly going blank as if one could really see the spirit escaping upwards, the gurgling noise as the man's blood had choked him and the pool of crimson spreading on the floor. It had seemed so easy; he had killed for the first time and then just swung round for the next opponent, which he had smashed about the head with a belaying pin. The crack still resounded in his own aching skull.

But he had done it! The thought momentarily obscured the haunting images of death. He had fought and killed as bravely as any other man and he would defy any man to say otherwise. Even the fearless James would be proud. Archie gained a pensive expression as he thought about the boy. He would never have expected to have made such a connection with a boy almost ten years his junior, but then in the navy all boys were forced into becoming men fast and age was almost meaningless and besides Jamie was often more man than he was. But all the same…

He was certainly an unusual person in whom he would have found a friend and yet the connection had been instant. He a man of 25 years of age, who often took his morals a little loosely and he, a quick- tempered, moody youth of barely 16. It was disconcerting the way that sometimes with the smile and the mass of curls, he almost looked like a laughing innocent cherub but then the next moment the humour was gone and those slated eyes lost their sparkle. Fierce, fiery and brave as the devil himself, M'man Jamie Saunders could certainly beguile you into underestimating him. 

Archie smiled weakly to himself. James certainly had a very deceiving mien. The friendship had been almost instant, but it was by no means infallible. Sometimes he was sure he could open his mouth and let all his troubles out, but then there was always that niggling little doubt. One second Jamie was outgoing and kind but then it would seem that he was whole new person; mysterious and secretive. Archie couldn't be sure that he trusted James - there was something suspicious in his past, barely disguised secrets that meant there could be no frankness between them. But perhaps the suspicion on James' part was for similar reasons; after all he himself had hardly been completely forthright about his past… Archie squeezed his eyes shut, forbidding himself to think on it.

Archie lifted his head from his still shaking limbs and looked about the ship to spot his absent comrade. It took a few moments to spot him, the hunched feeble-looking individual on the other side of the ship, leaning on the rail. Archie examined his friend, shocked at the sight, as he saw the wan sickliness of the normally healthy ivory skin; His hair was matted and perspiration-soaked as it clung to the almost feverish looking forehead...

He looked worse than Archie felt, and a slash of blood was visible beneath the fringe. There could only be something terribly wrong to get Jamie near to collapse and with such a truly painful look on his face, as he bore now. Archie made to stand and go over to him but a wave of nausea and fatigue drowned him again and he was forced back to the floor, head in hands. He would have to content himself with remaining still for a few minutes longer, while his body calmed itself from the shock of combat. With the pounding in his head, slightly abated, he resumed looking at his oddly jaundiced messmate. 

Jamie was certainly looking ill as he seemingly slumped further down on the rail, head bowed towards the salty water beneath. Archie could see the trickle of blood slipping down his forehead, and he frowned. He made to stand once more; this time a little more prepared for the crippling onslaught of dizziness. But by the time he had swayed to his feet and begun over to the ailing James, he saw Cleveland march to his side. Only a few words drifted intact over the distance between them: _Captain _and _cabin. _

Archie had thought it almost impossible for a man to look any more afflicted, but at Cleveland's words James had turned an exquisite shade of iridescent green that appeared to make even the men's agonised howling in the sick berth look of sound countenance. 

***

It had not been a conscious decision to follow; yet Archie found his feet stubbornly echoing those of the two Midshipmen retreating below decks before him. There was something terribly wrong and it was this purely instinctive feeling that brought his dazed form to the door of the Captain's cabin and pushed his ear to the keyhole, after Cleveland's retreating form had dismissed the guards.

The door was solid oak and he had to strain to hear anything at all. At fist there was a silence… and then he heard the first faint snatches of words drifting through to his keen ears. They were talking softly and he could barely catch anything at all. So absorbed was he in listening that he gave no thought to the dishonourable nature of his conduct that found his pressed against the wooden barrier. 

The words came in little drizzles: _fool… _then _six months, secret. _It was the Captain's voice he could hear. _Never suspected… messmates… you lied… never…seaman._ The words drifting through were disjointed and muffled. It took almost all his concentration to hear them never mind make some sense from them. More words came through as a question was asked, Archie thought he could just make out the end: _to do with you? Reveal you to the men…disgrace… don't… who you are…_Another question... _Name? _He heard the Captain's voice getting louder behind the door until it escalated into a distinct: _IN GOD'S NAME! _

There was more mumbling after that and only a few words filtered through. _Lord Hammond _and _Calypso. _He'd heard of him: Black Charlie Hammond. Then came… _daughters. _That had sounded like James' voice, but there was something different about it - it seemed somehow lighter. He heard what sounded like another name though it was too unclear to discern. _Do not… PLEASE… do not send me back. _It sounded like begging, James? The idea was laughable but he did not break his rapt concentration to dwell on it. More words… _undetected… disgrace _again… He could the Captain shouting now. _The articles of war! All the regulations I stand for… TO THE WIND! _

There was silence for a moment, before Jamie's voice spoke up again, strangely. He could only make out a few words: _Fight…country. _The Captain's voice again formed a few clear words. _No woman! _He heard Jamie's voice again, but this time with the unmistakable melodious strains of the Irish accent. Archie frowned in his concentration to hear: _…to do with me, sir?_

There was a prolonged silence here, and Archie took the opportunity to adjust himself into a more comfortable position. _a spy. _Archie's eyes widened in shock as the next audible words came through. _a spy._ He heard it again, as clear as daylight. Archie's mouth dropped open a little._ …the Admiralty..._ _a spy for your country…_ The words poured through the keyhole as wine from a pitcher, but Archie continued to listen - transfixed with horror as the words he was hearing began to mould their own meaning in his mind.

__

work yourself easily into confidence… deceit and disguise… noble family… foreign tongues - your English …being infallible…French. Spanish. There! The mention of Britain's detestable enemies! His worst imaginings seemed confirmed at once. _foreign or no! _Came through the chink. 

The Captain spoke then but he could not make anything out._Burden… duty… the Admiralty_ was mentioned once more…_ they won't be happy… the punishment… await you… capture… dangers… proud to fight for my country! This is the only way I can do it… _The last he knew came from Jamie. It was still in a appalled stupor that he kept his ear to the door.

what is to be don' now? His ears pricked up in order to catch it: _sail back to Portsmouth, where you will be brought before a Lord of the Admiralty... As to the men…_His ears strained to catch the Captain's judgement…_ we will say we must return the Lucille-Mariette to port…. prize too important… Lieutenant… speak of the consequences…recaptured. crews discontent.... questions asked…. utter secrecy… You will only speak if ordered to do so, am I understood. _The words came in a rush as his already aching brain tried to process all that he had just heard. He must have stopped listening as the boy was dismissed, as a few moments later the door swung open and he was thrown to the ground.

"Archie! What in God's name are you doing man?" He could only stare up at the figure above him in horror.


	12. Ask me no questions and I'll tell thee n...

Chapter 12

The corridor was dark, with the flickering lantern light creating pools of shadow on the planking floor. Archie drew himself back into the darkness as Lorna took a step towards him. He felt his back press up against the cold wall through the jacket of his uniform. The voice that asked the question was fraught with urgency. How characteristic that it came straight to the point.

"How much did you overhear?" His sharp reply cut through his covering of darkness, the tone was accusing and she flinched to hear it.

"I heard enough to know what you are!" He was praying he was mistaken, he needed to hear the denial… But it never came.

"I'm sorry Archie, I'm so sorry." The apology in itself was condemning. He shut his eyes to hear it. He wanted to believe so much that the pain he saw in those grey irises was genuine, that the pride was humbled. He shook his head; too often had he been taken for a fool - by card-players, by women and now by friends. He had always been an eager member of the gullible audiences of Drury Lane, taken in by the actors - too dazzled by the glittering stage and worlds that were created. He was always the one ready to weep at the hero's death, even as he stood, large as life, to take their bow…

"You're lying. Just like everything else, you're lying and you're not sorry! You don't care about me or anything else - if you had you wouldn't have done this!"

"And what would you have done if I had told you? Tell me that!" The reply flashed back with speed and accuracy of a lightning bolt from the hand of Zeus himself. "Admit it Archie, you would have done the _good and proper _thing," She spoke in a singsong voice that made him flush scarlet. "Handing me over! And if not you, then Horatio. Do not take me for a fool. And I am sorry!" She retorted. "I don't regret what I did, but I do regret lying to you."

"You regret the lies?" Archie choked in his fury, scrambling hastily to his feet and glaring down at Lorna, who simply looked back in defiance. "Every thing you are is a goddamn lie! Don't give me this bullshit about REGRET!" He spat out the last word like a poison. Archie was furious; furious with himself and with the figure before him. Why was it always James that got him so angry! The pale face opposite him remained completely composed and the reply was calm.

"You would have done the same in my shoes." Archie scoffed.

"Oh is this how you justify yourself?" The grey eyes flashed dangerously in the half-light.

"Or would you have been too afraid to do what I have done? Just screamed in your sleep again? Don't make me laugh!" Archie's hand flew up as if he made to strike her but Lorna did not flinch and he steadied himself. Every word shook with anger and disgust.

"BUT I AM NO TRAITOR… AND NO SPY!" Every word was coated in an icy venom, but Lorna just stared at Archie's flushed face, her eyebrows knitted in confusion before lifting in comprehension as she realised his mistake.

"Archie…" She was shaking her head. "You've made a mistake. Good God Archie, no! I'm no spy! You've misunderstood. Jesus Archie, I'm not a spy I'm a…" She remembered her promise to secrecy and she stopped. She could not tell him, yet… she'd come to far already. She sighed and plunged ahead. "Archie, I'm a woman."

The silence was prolonged and Lorna bathed in the tides of relief that swallowed her as she had finally said it to him and watched the eyes that at first alight with a blue fire of anger slowly turn to one of incredulous cognisance. The stunned voice that spoke was quiet and riddled with disbelief and doubt.

"A woman?" Now he was only capable of an echo. "What do you mean a woman?" She grinned lightly at his silly rhetorical question.

"A woman, female, a daughter of Eve…" She answered him all the same. "Do you understand me Archie?" He could only manage a mute nod, and his eyes flicked down to her chest. She raised an eyebrow.

"How could you keep it hidden? The days?" His eyes widened. "The _nights?_" The images were flashing through his mind: The dimpled, lopsided grin and the full pouted lips when it had faded. The long, dark lashes, the Raphaelite curls around the ivory face, the small fame (in the thin cotton nightshirt). He coughed in embarrassment at his debauched thought. The Irish voice? He remembered the name he had heard through the door.

"Hammond? The Lady… Lorna Hammond? Your name is Lorna?" He liked the sound of it in his mouth. She merely nodded. "A _Lady_?" He turned and began to walk away - there was too much for his mind to process at once. But she chased after him, putting her hand on his arm to halt him in his progress.

"Archie…" He turned around to face her. "You can't tell anyone…" She hadn't really needed to say it, she knew he would not tell, but she waited for his nod all the same. He made to move off again but she tugged at his sleeve once more. "And… I truly am sorry I could not tell you, it's just I was afraid." He smiled at her gently, showing he accepted her answer and she released her hold on her arm. He walked away, deep in his own thoughts and Lorna just stood in the dancing light and watched his retreating back.

***

Horatio supposed they must have had another fight. He had barely heard two civil words pass between his two friends all day before an uncomfortable silence descended between them. And one or the other was forced to make hasty apologies before hurrying away to busy themselves with some menial task on deck, leaving the other to carry on a conversation as normal. He could only attribute it to another one of their hot-headed disputes, so common in their turbulent friendship. He didn't care to pursue the matter further. 

To Lorna it seemed as if he was blocking her out on purpose, ashamed to know her. It was only the memory of that reassuring smile that stopped her from bursting into tears there and then. _Has he really forgiven me? Does he hate me now? Can he never trust me again? _The questions flew around her head like daemons. She couldn't bear it. After all the emotional bombardment she had just withstood this was the last straw. Her iron will, and stubborn resolve was nearly torn to shreds and it seemed that he did this to her on purpose. Wanting her to cry.

But Archie only needed time to clear his head. _A Woman? _He couldn't believe it. He understood now: the disjointed past, the way she had coloured when he had pressed her about women. He groaned at how his behaviour must have seemed to her, but then smiled as he remembered her reply; hadn't she said her own name? What a cad he had been. He couldn't speak to her, yet. He felt such an idiot; a woman treated just like everyone else. It was too embarrassing to be near her as he saw her look away from the sodomites and the drunks, and the fould language pouring from every man's lips. 

She seemed so fragile all of a sudden. The smile had new meanings and the body new powers. He could not help but cast furtive glances in her direction, but then look away, ashamed, as he found her eyes looking back him. But he knew that they would have to talk sooner or later…

***

And talk they did. Lorna could no longer bear the tense silences. She followed him up onto his watch after midnight. The air was cool and the only light came from the ship's lantern as it cast eerie shadows and produced golden ripples on the black waters below. He couldn't avoid her there as she stood, arms folded, imploring him to speak.

"I'm sorry." He was first to break the abstraction. "I needed time to let it all sink in. I don't blame you for what you did." _He doesn't hate me!_

"But do you forgive me all the same?"

"Do you really need to ask?" She nodded and he sighed. "Of course I do!" _He forgives me!_

"I'll tell you everything if you want?" It was his turn to nod.

"I'd like to know… There are too many secrets between us." She did tell him everything; about her home, her love of the sea, her father, the death of her mother, the money she received and the sudden marriage proposal. She told him how she had left, the note, how she had made herself into a boy and how she had joined the _Indy_. Even as he told it she knew it was an incredulous tale. But it was true and Archie believed her. _He trusts me._

They both went to their bunks with greatly relieved minds; she no longer in doubt of their friendship and he no longer in ignorance. He was careful to turn away as she undressed and she nearly laughed - after months of believing her to be a boy, it was hardly different. Archie and Lorna fell asleep that night with faint smiles playing on their lips.


	13. A high price for freedom

Chapter 13

It was on the next day, Apollo's chariot burning up the sky and the decks of both ships crawling with men anxious to be on their way to adventure and battle that the Captain took his slow steps onto the quarterdeck and called _all hands! _The air was expectant as the sea of face looked up, questioning. Pellew sighed, he knew what he had to say would not be well received.

"Men!" He wasn't sure how quite best to begin, but he did know that there was no way to avoid it. For everyone's sake it had to be done. He looked for her Ladyship's face in the crowd but he could not see her; there were too many distractions, not least the expectant men waiting for him to continue. "You have won a great victory for your country. The _Lucille-Mariette _is a British prize of war and King George thanks you all for your loyal service for King and Country, as noble seaman of the greatest fighting force on Earth - The British Navy!" The men cheered at that, but rather half-heartedly. Even they knew government propaganda when they heard it, they knew this was not all the Captain wanted to say. Hundreds of pairs of eyes glinted with suspicion and the Captain finally delivered the message beneath the elaborate praise.

"We return to Portsmouth!" Mouths opened to protest all over the place and he could hear the beginnings of rebellious murmuring. He ploughed ahead regardless. "Yes, back to Portsmouth. She's is too great a prize to travel without an escort and full crew, and I would not want your comrades blood to have been spilt in vain should she be retaken! And she will be sailed home, and she shall be sold at a profit - a third of which goes to you, the brave hands that captured her!" The mouths closed at that and he knew he had retaken his audience. "Moreover we will re-supply so we can set-sail once more for Ushant within the week! Mr Chad, please take a quarter of the crew aboard the _Lucille-Mariette _and prepare to make sail. And, Mr Ekklestone, you shall do the same aboard the _Indefatigable_!"

As the sails flew up the masts and whistles hailed around him, Sir Edward's eyes finally picked her out in the teeming crowd; the unmistakable black curls spilled from beneath the midshipman's hat and the grey eyes that found his were warm with gratitude.

Indeed it was three days at full sail, with a full wind blowing across the stern that carried the two great ships in sight of the English coast. Her green rolling hills loomed high and lush through the damp mists and the gulls ahead seemed to be heralding their arrival. The ancient wooden docks of Portsmouth where they found mooring; the horizon covered with the battling spars, the leaning, twisted lodgings and the old clock tower that seemed etched straight from Lorna's memory. The whole ship lurched still as the great anchor fell into the sea pushing the water around it into breakers causing the ship to roll for a few moments until it rested still, moving gently on the calm sea.

Lorna had had those three days of sailing to prepare herself for this. No more fear or nervousness was left in her person as she sat in the stern of the ship's boat, beside the Captain, as it was rowed ashore by immense oarsman with muscles bulging beneath their shirts. Her eyes were focused on the course before her as she held the tiller in the crook of her elbow, pushing it gently to steer them on a course for the docks.

Even as she stood there, her feet barely on the weathered planking of Portsmouth's docks, she could see it. The Admiralty building, as it towered above the other buildings with its marble columns and steady stream of impressively rich dressed gentry flowing to and from its doors, easily stood out. Lorna didn't dare let herself think on her immediate future as, under the pretence of being the document bearer, she followed Pellew's brisk footsteps up the grand staircase to the heavy, brass-embossed double doors that were thrown open for entry. 

The building was more impressive inside than out, and though Lorna had been used to extravagance and good-living from a tender age, she had only seen the squalid conditions of the midshipman's birth as a home for the past months. Seeing the marble and great paintings again truly brought home what she had given up. The stern gazes of past admiral's and Kings pierced her skull from all sides and it was all she could do to stare back up at them defiantly as she walked past.

It was in a brightly lit, panelled corridor that they waited - hats tucked under arms and sitting on worn green leather chairs. They didn't have to wait long, however. A portly gentlemen looking extremely pompous in a black tailcoat and white gloves, flitted out from a doorway, that had previously been hidden in the panneling. He managed to cast a disdainful eye over the slightly sodden appearance of both uniforms and the barely disguised patches on Lorna's. He gave a stiff bow from the waist to the Captain, reminding her oddly of an emu, as he stuck his bottom in the air and dipped his nose to the floor. He stood and indicated the open door he had appeared from. 

***

Admiral Hood was a man who gave the distinct appearance of an overfed vampire. Sallow skinned and jowley, with blood shot eyes and the self-satisfied, predatory look of a large tom cat, knowing that he could send hundreds of men to their deaths on a whim or give them all knighthoods on another. He looked at them now as a cat would look at a frightened mouse it was holding between its claws, almost saying: You're life is in my hands. 

He seemed about sixty or so in age and when he spoke it was almost a purr.

"You wanted to see me, Captain?" He walked leisurely over to the vast desk at the centre of the room and seated himself behind it with a groan as his rotund backside met the velvet seat cushion. 

"Yes, my Lord. I considered it a matter of utmost… importance." Lorna heard him choosing his words delicately. The admiral brought the tips of his long fingers together and stared over the top of them with his piggy eyes.

"Well out with it sir! And how does it concern this scrawny young fellow?" And Lorna just stood in silence, silently praying that her plea would be accepted as Captain Sir Edward Pellew recounted the recent events of her life, and the situation she had placed them in. First she had seen the ancient Admiral's eyes slip to her jacket front, which still betrayed no signs of a bust, and then to her face. He then seemed to go an ashen grey as he heard of her lineage, and it was an outraged red that greeted the Captain's words that there was only one real option available if all parties' were to be satisfied. There was the vindication and good repute of the Navy on one hand and the good repute of a one of its more influential officers on the other. He was hardly a man to have his position dictated to him and now by a meagre midshipman and woman, no less! His small, reddened eyes had narrowed beneath their silver brows as he had glared in her direction, but she had returned his gaze with cool countenance and bowed low. 

She left the great Admiralty building, six hours later than she had arrived, once again shadowing the Captain. But this time her step was confident and her head was held high, with a small brown parcel clutched in her hand. Lord Hood was not fool enough to have refused Pellew's offer, and now she was returning home with not even the slightest threat upon her name. The thought of what service she had traded in return for this liberty didn't even really cross her mind. There was no looking to the future, the present was all that counted. Danger was an easy price to pay for freedom.


	14. An unexpected move

Chapter 14

Captain Pellew, upon his return, had confirmed to the crew his intention of remaining a'port for the remainder of the week. At first the crew had dissented - already angry at having to return home so soon in the first place. But the thunderclouded faces soon mellowed and there were choruses of excited muttering that greeted the news that they had leave from duties for several hours during the time the ship was at anchor.

Lorna was glad Sir Edward had agreed to her idea. The men were bitter and resentful of being cooped up for so long without the prospect of action and they needed this liberty to boost their morale, which had been sinking dangerously low, despite their profit of prize money from the sale of the _Lucille-Mariette._

The blood was up for adventure and battle yet here they were, stuck in Portsmouth - drifting languorously at moorings.

Giving the men this freedom was always a risky venture - men could seize the opportunity to desert in droves. But she knew none of the able seaman of the _Indy _would be so stupid! The Master of the Docks could have had every provost in the country set on the backs of the deserters within a day, providing they could escape Portsmouth's very own press gang first! They wouldn't desert - and especially not with the prospect of glory ahead. The thought of returning to this same stretch of water as a hero would keep them in the navy? Besides Lorna trusted her men. How could any man command another without the trust that he would obey?

Lorna, Archie and Horatio's divisions had three nights of liberty under the supervision of their midshipmen, just before the _Indy _was once again due to make sail for the coast of Brest. It was strange, wandering around on the dry land without the scrutinising eye of a commanding officer, without the ever-present burden of duty. A few hours of complete freedom in the night air, it seemed almost to good to be believed.

***

The men ran ahead, disappearing almost instantaneously into the nearest ale-houses, brothels and lodgings of disrepute where they were guaranteed a good time with no questions asked in the morning, and no strings attached except that of a thudding hang over. The midshipmen, exerting a little more self-control, walked slowly along behind the rapidly thinning gaggle of men.

The great clock in its tower above them mournfully tolled out 10 o'clock. The black velvet night sky was cloud strewn but here and there a few determined stars battled to twinkle through the haze and the full moon, too, shone clear above the cloud curtain casting a silver incandescence over the town. Horatio had walked ahead and Archie dropped back slightly so he was walking beside Lorna. They walked in silence, she looking blissfully around at the dark streets and then the orange rays of light streaming through windows and open doorways of the houses open to the night. She was listening to the faint sounds of revelling being carried on the breeze and the sound of their hollow footsteps on the uneven cobblestones. 

Archie took the opportunity to watch her. He knew about the meeting with the Admiral, he knew what she was now and he had simply accepted with a silent nod when she had told him. There were no more secrets anymore on that front. She had been completely honest and he was glad of it. He watched the way she walked, with confident, measured paces: just like a man's. He wondered how she would move in a dress… If it would be feminine? If she would swing her hips? He wondered what she would be like with her hair loose and her breasts un-bound. It wasn't a lustful thought, only curious as to what Lorna would be like as a 'woman'. It seemed almost impossible to imagine her in flowing gowns, twirling in candle light, leaning into the shoulder of one lord or another… Archie's blonde brows lowered as he realised he didn't like that thought. 

He studied her face in profile - she wasn't a beauty, the nose forbade that, but she wasn't bad looking, in fact but for that one feature she would have been incredibly handsome. But that wasn't the problem, it was that everything in character seemed to conflict with who she really was. Forthright, passionate, fearless and bloody scary at times, she was hardly the aristocratic wallflower. She sensed his gaze then and turned to face him, a small smile on her lips. He returned it with a grin and she looked away from him once more, the smile slowly faded from his face.

The breeze was getting stronger. A sea wind that pierced clothing and sent shivers down spines. Archie saw Lorna shiver slightly and pull her jacket closed around her. He moved closer to her and, drawing in his breath, placed and arm about her shoulders, pulling her into towards the warmth of his body. But she immediately gave him an angry frown and shrugged him away.

"I'm sorry, I just thought you were cold." He spoke quietly so Horatio would not catch it, but Lorna only shook her head and jogged ahead to catch up with their distant friend. Archie looked distressed for a moment before giving a small embarrassed cough, forcibly plastering a smile onto his face and running ahead to catch up to the pair in front.

***

Lorna tried to avoid Archie's gaze as she kept up a brisk pace beside the rangy form of Horatio. One minute they had been simply walking along, with her admiring the stars and deserted streets, the next she had felt his muscled arm tight around her. She struggled to stop her cheeks growing hot - she had hidden her feelings for a long time, and had a lot of experience. _What on Earth had he meant by it? _It felt strange being so close to him, unnerving - and with Horatio standing no more that 6 metres away! He could have turned around and seen them, at any time! _And what would he have thought then? How could Archie have been so careless?_

"Why were you powering ahead with so much determination, Horatio?" She spoke to break the poignant silence that seemed to have developed around Horatio; everyone lost in his or her own imaginings. 

"Yes, Horatio - not trying to escape your friends I hope?" Archie chimed in on Horatio's other side. Lorna kept her face completely impassive. Horatio looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

"No, indeed. I was just… wondering as to what we… were going to do tonight."

"Well?" Horatio looked even more uncomfortable at Lorna's naïve question and Archie snorted with barely contained laughter. He decided to reply instead of his friend who was slowly turning the colour of a good claret.

"I think our dear messmate is a little… shy around the 'ladies'…" Lorna heard the way he said that word. "And…" He continued despite the glares of Horatio's mute outrage. "And I believe he is desirous of some practice." He gave Lorna a wicked grin before ducking to narrowly avoid the cocked hat as it flew swiftly from Horatio's dark curls at Archie's golden halo. His laughter was mischievous and Lorna could only looked bemused.

Horatio marched off and Lorna made to follow but she came to an abrupt halt as she felt Archie's hot breath on her neck and his mocking voice low in her ear.

"For a lad so smart with his figures and words, you're awful slow on the uptake, m'boy!" His voice went even quieter and tremulous with laughter. "We're of to see some ladies of… erm," he coughed. "Slightly less good repute than your good self." The grey eyes widened in comprehension and she turned and gave him a look, almost to say _you wouldn't dare!_ He only sighed in exasperation. "Come on! There's no escape, I'm afraid. This is the place where a man proves what he's made of." The look he received in reply to that was little short of murderous.

And Lorna, mute and mentally berating herself for being so slow-witted, could only follow him after Horatio into the waiting door of the nearest brothel.


	15. A first kiss

Chapter 15

The room was hot and crowded - claustrophobic with the stench of sweating bodies and beer. The air was thick with the curling tendrils of tobacco fumes and the sounds of riotous laughter. The three of them entered to see several hunched figures collapsed over the bar, dirty glasses of amber liquid cradles in their arms. There was the combined sound of snoring and groaning drifting across to them.

The rest of the room was crowded with circular tables and chairs, packed closely together. A man in the centre was playing a raucous ditty on an out-of-tune fiddle and some dirt encrusted oil lamps swung from the ceiling, casting a dim radiance out through the stale fog. Men and boys alike were strewn about the ancient furniture, singing drunken ballads, laughing or hunched over the tables slapping down cards and sending glistening gold coins spinning across the notched wood and onto the floor. 

Whores, in gaudy coloured shawls, which barely disguised their assets, were soliciting their trade everywhere. They were whispering words of encouragement into the mends' ears and then pausing every so often to subtly indicate the rickety staircase in the corner, almost obscured by a curtain of red shimmering beads, that lead up to the _private rooms_… Every so often a man would stand, decrepit old fool or mere lad of twelve, to take the harlot's extended hand and follow her to the bottom step before disappearing upwards.

There was only one vacant table in the whole tavern and Horatio made straight for it, dragging Archie and a reluctant Lorna behind him - the latter open-mouthed to find herself dragged into such an environment. She mentally said a prayer for forgiveness for entering a dwelling with such an infestation of sin. Good catholic girl she might not be, but this was profane, and frankly disgusting. The table was squashed into a corner where the light from the hanging lamps couldn't quite penetrate the gloom. A candle stood in the centre of the table to compensate, slowly dwindling downwards into a sallow pool of its own wax. The trio seated themselves onto the wooden benches pressed hard up against the wall.

Lorna tried to keep her eyes fixed upon a particularly fascinating scorch mark on the tabletop, for modesty's sake but she couldn't help but cast furtive glances at their surroundings. Modesty was soon overcome by unadulterated curiosity as she watched the vulgar gesticulations and heard the lewd jesting of the men and women around her. She saw a sailor from Horatio's division - Styles she thought - disappearing past the beaded curtain with some redhead.

She turned back around to her table to find Archie and Horatio involved in animated discourse about the "beauties" the house had to offer. She only listened with half an ear, too overwhelmed by all the other activity around her, and was only vaguely conscious of being thankful that they did not seek her opinion on the matter. But the sight that greeted her, brought little solace: three woman _of the establishment_ were winding their way through the tables from the bar, and headed straight in their direction. She shook Archie's arm with urgency. The two men swung round from their conversing to face her.

"What?" She gave an abrupt nod of her head in the women's direction. Archie's mouth formed an 'o', but before he could do anything Horatio was pulling a dirty blonde on to his lap. Lorna noticed that anything Archie would have done on her behalf was swiftly forgotten as a brunette found place on beside him. Lorna could do little more than gulp when her (unavoidable) turn came. It was another brunette - hair limp and oily from her squalid living and beads of sweat were visible from the steamy conditions. A very… voluptuous woman and Lorna felt herself being slid across the wood and squashed into Archie as she fitted herself onto the end of the bench. There was a slight creaking. 

There was a thud as six beer mugs smacked onto the table surface before them. Horatio reached for his in an instant, and immediately became absorbed in rapid unblushing banter with the blonde. It was not long before Archie too began to flirt shamelessly. Lorna was not immediately capable of speech - indeed she could only sit there with her mouth, somewhat gormlessly, agape. 

"You're an awful quiet one, aren't you?" Lorna turned in her seat as best she could to face the giantess seated next to her. She decided her best option was simply to play along, and said nothing. Archie and Horatio had already made steady erosion on the amount of drink in their glasses and she reached for hers -_what the hell, I'm going to need it! _She downed almost all of it at once and turned once again to the prostitute and felt her hot stale breath on her face.

***

The alcohol had taken swift effect as her woman's body could not contain it and her stomach protested violently at every imbibing, but still she continued - tankard after tankard disappeared before the trio and Lorna felt herself lose more and more control of her senses. The last semi-rational thought she remembered entertaining in her anaesthetised mind was sending the whore away, somewhat crassly, before she was too drunk to escape a situation even she could not explain away. 

More and more glasses appeared before her eyes and it was with a numb arm that she reached for them again and again to sate the longing on her lips. The golden elixir was making her giddy. It had been gradual at first, just a slight dulling of the senses, but now the room was spinning about her and she could hear singing. She only saw a blurry figure as Horatio stood to take hold of the blonde's outstretched hand and weaving his way to the staircase where he dropped a coin to the table there and unsteadily made his drunken way upwards. 

Lorna turned in her seat, repressing a hiccup to find Archie sitting beside her. She vaguely wondered where the woman was, and gave him a large inane grin. She thought he was swaying about in his seat slightly, but that might just be her dizzy mind. She moved closer to him until their faces were almost touching; until she could smell the alcohol fermenting on his breath. He had a slightly glazed expression as she managed a disjointed whisper.

"I love… you, Archie," she hiccuped slightly before continuing with her slurred declaration. "You're a great friend… hand I just wan'ed ye te know… that I love you." She grinned at him again, but he didn't smile back. Archie just put his hands on her cheeks, tilted her face and kissed her. At first it was only a butterfly kiss; just a bare brushing of skin, but then he kissed her again, this time more forcefully - opening he mouth to him. She felt the heat rush over her and she moved closer and closer to him. _This feels so natural._ Her senses let go to the ale and to him - she felt nothing but heat and pleasure as she leant into him.

Then he pulled away. And she could just remember being upset about that, before he had dragged her to her unsteady feet and lead her across the room to some rickety wooden stairs. The last thing she remembered was a coin hitting the table. 


	16. Dawn revelations

Chapter 16

Her first sober experience, as her black lashes fluttered open to the daylight, was that of her head being cleaved in two with some large blunt metal instrument; or so it felt. She was acutely of a stabbing pain over her right temple and she could fell a vein throbbing above it as blood pounded against her skull. She let out a pitiful moan as her eyes blinked against the glare of the sunlight, trying to dispel the little yellow orbs that appeared to be dancing, as if suspended from the ceiling above her. 

It was as she brought her hand to her throbbing forehead that she became aware that she was lying on her back - on something soft. She struggled through waves of dizziness that brought sour-tasting bile up her throat, to sit upright. She coughed a couple of times to clear it and pushed her matted fringe from her eyes. She was on a bed; a rather dirty, moth eaten and sagging bed that had seen many better years, but nevertheless a bed. It was a strange sensation - waking up to anything other than the rhythmic tossing of the ship's hammock, that she had become so accustomed to.

It was then she noticed the prone figure lying, sprawled, beside her. The events of the previous night filtered back to her from the blurry, hung-over, recesses of her brain; the rapidly emptying glasses and tankards that obscured the tabletop from view swam in and out of her memory. She remembered Horatio taking the hand of a strange woman, a whore, and disappearing. And then Archie: his scent, his warmth, his lips…

In an instant it all flooded back to her, and she remembered where she was. She looked about her in pure, unadulterated horror. Hurriedly she looked down to check: she was fully clothed. She looked at her slumbering companion: so was he. She let out a shaky breath of relief. At least that held some guarantee as to their actions, or at least the lack of them and she could almost be completely sure that nothing happened beyond her memory. 

__

Well thank the good Lord! What **did **happen was grave enough. She mentally berated herself to succumbing to the drink. _The Father is certainly making me suffer for my sins. _She groaned again as another flash of pain cut off her vision. She looked at Archie, lying so peacefully. How would she ever live down the embarrassment and ignominy of her actions. She had behaved no better than a common slut, offering herself in such a base manner - and drunk to boot. Lorna could not even contemplate looking him in the eye again. Her forthright nature couldn't stomach the idea of pretending it never happened: it would no better than shame-faced hypocrisy and she could not bear the thought of being so demeaned. She could bear to see herself lowered so: to a mumbled apology, to have him laugh at her. She could never bear to have him laugh at her - he of all men. 

Or worse: what if he imagined it had meant something to her, that she had meant it and **enjoyed **it? What if he expected something of her? Best that he thought it meant nothing; that it had been drink induced and foolhardy. _After all that was exactly what it was! _She told herself firmly, angry at herself for feeling otherwise. The fact that it had felt so right to be in his arms, the way she had turned her face up to receive his kiss. It was no good - even she didn't believe it. 

But at least one thing was not in dispute: she wished it had never happened. Her first kiss with a man 10 years her senior who thought of her still as a boy, drunk in some whorehouse? The product of nought more than alcohol induced lust? She was disgusted with herself, and the thought she still harboured in her breast that she had actually wanted it was even worse. She crossed herself against her sins.

The rhythmic heaving of his chest was becoming shallower even as she looked and his eyes were moving lazily beneath their lids. He coughed once or twice to dislodge the cloying feeling that alcohol left in its wake from his throat and opened his eyes. He smiled to find her looking at him, and mouthed a "good morning". She couldn't smile in return. Instead she felt colour rising in her face, all rational thought that told her to face him down, to say she had behaved disreputably and inappropriately, disappeared in the heat of her flush. She couldn't hide her true feelings, she had never been able to - that's what made her so tactless and querulous sometimes. She could not look him in the eyes and tell him she had not wanted it. Lorna found herself only able to hastily turn away and fling herself from the bed. Archie could only look on as the door slammed into its frame and booted footfalls could be heard fleeing down the rickety stairs.

Archie sat there for a few moments, unmoving and uncomprehending as he struggled to get his mind clear from the dizzying fog that seemed to have enveloped it. Things were moving to fast for his tired organs. First there had been light, but he was used to that - this was by no means the first time had drunken himself into inebriation and unconsciousness. But then instead of some purple-faced bar lady slapping him round, the first face he saw was Lorna. She had seemed to be so beautiful then with her fringe billowing out like some Botticelli Venus, her child-like lashes drifting down as she blinked and her lips slightly parted. He remembered the kiss: how innocent and tender it had been, then coming upstairs but falling into deep slumber before head having even greeted pillow. He remembered the happiness and contented feeling that had swum through him as he fell into night with her warmth and steady breathing by his side. His lips curved into a smile at the pleasant memory. His throat had felt too dry to speak so he mouthed his greeting. And she had disappeared. One moment there and seemingly surrounded by a halo of the dawn light and the next gone, running from the room. 

As he sat there is mind slowly began to return to a semi-alert and comprehending state. It was then that the guilt assailed him. Why had she run away? Had she not been able to face him: had she not wanted what he had wanted? He had wanted to kiss her and hold her, to touch her and love her. He was in love with her and he knew it. Not even fully an adult, wrought with tempestuous tantrums, he loved her. And she had not recoiled, not protested, so he had kissed her.

He had forgotten that she was drunk. He had taken advantage of her! _Oh God… _He put his head in his hands. She would be disgusted with him now, how could he apologise for something like that. She was a Lady, he a rake, and he had breached her honour - and there was no going back. He just sat there with his hair and clothes rumpled from sleep, his eyes red as he pressed his face into his hands. He felt on the callused skin of his palm a tear leak out.


	17. He loved and she loft The Mission

Dear Readers: Just in case it causes any confusion I just want to make something clear before you start. At the end there is some rather long dialogue so I have broken it up into paragraphs. It is however still Lorna speaking. You can tell because it has a speech mark at the beginning to show continued speech but none the end to show speech has not ended. Sorry if it's confusing. L 

Chapter 17

Despite the liberty the crew had enjoyed whilst the _Indy _had been at anchor, everyone was still ecstatic to be returning to sea. The atmosphere was charged with the ascending exhilaration of imminent adventure. When she had arrived back at the ship in the early hours of the morning, she was greeted by a sarcastically raised eyebrow from Horatio, whose pious upbringing, she was sure, was the only thing that actually stopped him from making any piebald comments about her sexual preferences. To all her good shipmates she was still a boy and her disappearance with Archie the previous evening had been under the scrutiny of much of the crew - the ones that frequented that particular brothel at any rate. And on a ship packed tight with near on two hundred souls, gossip travels fast. She thanked the Lord that none of the hands at least had the cheek, or the nerve, to say anything to her face. She could only keep her shame-flushed face down and ignore the mutterings that's seemed to follow her footsteps. Archie she avoided like the plague, much to his distress. 

As well as gossip he was hounded by guilt. The realisation that he was in love did nothing to alleviate the weight on his smarting conscience. He had tried to talk to her tens, maybe hundreds of times but still she avoided and dodged his efforts. He thought that if he could just speak with her, tell her that he loved her and that he was sorry he had treated her so ill. But when he saw her angry eyes and coloured cheeks rapidly turning away from him, all words seemed lost in his mouth and he could only let her run away - again. He felt like a criminal - first he betrayed her and now himself, and he could only look on.

***

The ship set sail on the evening's tide. A great sight; beautiful and almost fantastical. Already with the lustrous shimmering moon capping the jet waves with silver, Lorna looked out from the quarterdeck and wondered what a sight they must seem: a majestic vessel, great cavernous canvas sails billowing outwards on the breeze, sailing out to the flushed sunset of the horizon. From the gratings she could hear the words of a song drifting up on the night air. "Hearts of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men…" Some dynamic sailor entertaining with a half-pint of rum and a fiddle. She smiled to hear it, and began to slowly pace the length of the ship. 

***

The new day saw her called to Captain Pellew's cabin. She attended forthwith, with the brown package she had received from Admiral Hood removed from it's hiding place at the bottom of her dunnage and tucked safely into the breast-pocket of her jacket, where it bulged out in an ungainly mountain. She knocked smartly on the door and waited for his call of "Enter!" She smiled to remember the consternation and dread that accompanied her last visit to these quarters. Not a trace of the same now. The command came, growled through the door, and she obeyed it shutting the door behind her as she went in. She snapped her heels smartly to attention and removed her hat.

"You wish'd to see me, sir." The Captain was seated behind his heavy writing desk and he looked up at her natural accent with a hint of a smile.

"Stand easy, sir." He stopped for a moment, a little flustered. "What d'you suppose I am to call you now?" She smiled at his consideration, but then shook her head slightly, sending curls bouncing in all directions. 

" 'Sir', 'man', 'boy', 'My Lady, 'Ma'am'… T'is all the same te me, sir." Pellew raised an eyebrow but merely shrugged.

"As you might have anticipated, I have called you here concerning your orders from the Admiralty." His brown eyes met her grey ones for a moment before she replied, removing the package from her coat. If he had been looking for any traces of fear in her glance, he was disappointed - there was only alert anticipation.

"I'd guessed, sir."

"You realise that in confidence you are no longer obliged to call me 'sir'. You are now a direct servant to the Admiralty?"

"I had realised, sir" The amusement in his eyes was evident, but Sir Edward did well in preventing it from reaching his lips. Lorna surreptitiously studied the man, as he spoke to her. He was a man approaching middle age, chestnut hair bound around with a black ribbon showing it's first signs of grey. He had kind eyes that she had noticed the first moment she had seen him, quick to betray his every emotion though he struggled enough to keep his expression blank. His skin was rough and slightly tanned from the days at sea and entrenched with the laughter lines engraved around his eyes and mouth as well as those chiselled onto his brow from pensive frowns and worry. His eyebrows were full and dark, and apt to lower when he brooded on the quarterdeck. He was good captain and the crew respected him, that she knew and for that he would always have her admiration. She noticed that he had been waiting patiently for her to speak, and she obliged: 

"I have read the dispatch, sir. I am requested and required to take a cutter along with a small crew and sail into French territ'ry. I am to be disguised as a French sail'r, and as such an English prisoner of war. We're to allow the cutter to be spotted by the enemy, to preten' to run away but then to make it so surrender is nec'ssary to their superior numbers. There are to be no casualties. After a surrender, when I am "liberated in my own country", I am to reveal myself to be a woman. 

"I shall explain that I was on my way back from the West Indies after my Father's unfortunate death to make m' way in France, and to offer m'self to the services of the Revolution. 'Our ship was taken by the British, and I disguised m'self as a boy so as not to be taken advantage of by the infamously barbaric British. They believed me to be a surviving sailor and took me aboard their ship - and there I prayed for God to send my own countrymen to liberate me.' Yea get th' drift, sir?" Pellew nodded for her to continue.

"Once established I'm to use any means nec'ssary," Lorna lifted a dubious eyebrow as she said it. "To befriend and become 'n intimate _confidante _of one 'Baptiste de Sainte-Juste', the brother of Louis St - Juste - the Revolutionary figurehead. By such means as I find nec'ssary…" Another questioning eyebrow was raised. "I 'm to offer myself as an agent to the French and in the mean time extract certain documents from their possession. I am to return to England under the guise as a double agent forthwith." She took a deep breath, and what she said next was laden with scepticism. "Sounds fun."


	18. Formal introductions

Chapter 18

Alone in the midshipman's birth, reclining in her hammock, Lorna had re-read the orders turning over in her mind all that she had to do and how it was to be accomplished. Did all England's spies receive the same ominously unlabelled and unremarkable package? Was every set of orders, typed so concisely by an unconcerned Admiralty scribe, so remote and imprecise? Expecting the unachievable from impersonal orders that didn't care whether you lived or died, and wanted the world, not caring who you are or how you got it. The infallible copperplate told her nothing, not what to expect nor what to do. Everything that happened would be left to improvisation and fate. 

Hastily putting aside her shadowed thoughts, she re-folded the bulky letter along its pristine creases and tucked it away once more into her jacket. Nothing was as impossible as it seemed. Hugging the one knee tucked up into her body, she rested her shin on it, eyes clouded over with thought. What to be done now? Lorna had already decided that since the orders markedly left so much to her discretion, she was entitled to take certain liberties within that. For example she had noticed her orders were rather vague on matters regarding confidentiality. They stated the obvious of course: That her mission was one of utmost secrecy - but no more.

She had to admit to her own slightly guilty conscience that she was interpreting the slight obscurity regarding anything the secrecy-of-self rather loosely; in her mind making 'an omission' perhaps of what the Admiralty had probably taken for granted. _My orders state the _**Mission**_ is a secret, but they never said _**I **_was a secret..._With these insidious thoughts running in credible rings through her mind, she swung off from the canvas and went to call upon the Captain.

***

And so it was that she stood, hands clasped securely behind her back, on the Quarterdeck of HMS _Indefatigable _whilst the Captain Sir Edward Pellew stood to the fore, in a voice rather more confident than he really felt, and informed the crew of her true identity. Lorna confined herself to a blank silence as made his speech, and only watched in lofty disinterest as man after man turned their widening eyes upon her, his jaw slack in shock or amazement. Her composure only nearly slipped once as Horatio's eyes changed from one of uncomprehending incredulity to one of profound hurt as he turned to Archie and only found him completely unmoved, even with a half-humoured smile playing on his lips.

The speech had been short, and Lorna had barely listened, but most of its abrupt content had lodged itself in her memory.

"That person, whom you have formally known as Mr Midshipman James Saunders is no more to be recognised as such. I wish to inform you on her behalf that she is, in all veracity, the Lady Hammond, daughter of my fellow Captain the Lord Charles Hammond. I wish you to be aware that her presence is entirely justified as a Servant of the Admiralty." She saw the eyes widen a little further in the cognition of that sentence. "She shall keep her formally recognised rank aboard ship, but now with due reference to her genuine person." He paused for a moment, to draw in a slightly precarious breath; he had not been entirely convinced as to the wisdom of her decision to reveal herself. "Lieutenant Ecclestone [_note corrected spelling_], you will please dismiss the hands"

He left then, swirling his deep blue cape about broad shoulders and disappeared below decks without so much as a glance about him, to a somewhat forced and breathless call of "All hands to their duties, dismissed!" He left Lorna standing there, immobile, seeming to Archie's poetic disposition as some sort of heavenly apparition that struck dumb and inert all that saw her - so amazed were they by the angel's beauty and golden halo. And so she stood before the sea of unmoving, gaping faces. No one moved and no one ordered them to do so - the command forgotten by Officers, NCOs and common seamen alike as they stood rendered incapacitated in their silent shock. Even the squad of scarlet coated Lobsters, standing smartly to attention not a moment before with even stock leather polished to a gleaming shine, were now reduced to a wondering rabble.

It wasn't long before the silence began to drag on, making Lorna edgy, not that she'd show it. She cleared her throat, determinably audible, and slid with almost a jaunty air down the taff'rail to the lower decks, where the mass was assembled. She was over to Archie, her footsteps sounding eerily loud on the planking.

"Mr Kennedy?" He inclined his head slightly towards her in answering, producing and air of almost conspiratorial confidentiality. He smiled as she spoke for the first time, openly, in her natural accents.

"Yes, Miss Hammond?"

"D'you suppose there'd be anyway of getting the mouths clos'd, " Several mouths closed instantly." An' the hands a little more occupied with their duties? Or maybe that would be impossible fo' what little is left of the day?"

"Probably not possible."

"I'm incline' te agree. Maybe I sh'd put it ter the firs' Lieutenan' ter let the hands have the rest've the day off. Give them all a little time ter let it all sink in, Mr Kennedy."

"I think that's to be recommended, miss." 

Lorna walked over to Mr Ecclestone in her usual confident gait, nothing about it indicating it to be anything less than natural. When she looked up into his slightly ruddy, square-jawed face she found his eyes rather hesitant to meet hers.

"With th' respects of Mr Kennedy 'n' m'self, Sir, but d'ye think it might not be prudent te give the crew the rest of the day off from their duties?" The Lieutenant was silent for a few moments, obviously not mentally prepared enough to cope with direct speech from her at precisely that moment. His mind didn't seem quite capable of registering that she had spoken. She raised an eyebrow as she waited (how glad she was becoming of that one facial singularity), a slight indignant thought crossing her mind, at his stubborn, chauvinistic ineptitude to comprehend a woman's existence aboard a ship of war - all of the men for that matter! With the first scathing remark rising to the surface, it was lucky he spoke at last accompanied by his large head nodding in agreement - at first slowly but then so vigorously as to send blonde curls bouncing about on his broad forehead.

"Yes, of course, Mr, Miss, Lady Hammond…" He corrected himself in a haste. " A capital idea, yes, indeed, quite. Erm…" He coughed to cover his rising embarrassment. "If you would be so good as to, er, give the order, er, My Lady." He cleared his throat somewhat gruffly at the incongruity of her pronoun sounding on the end. Lorna was about to walk away when she turned back.

" 'Miss' 'll do fine, sir." She turned back to face the crew. "All Hands! Dismissed!" The disquieting silence remained unbroken, but slowly, yet still without sound, men began to shuffle below - no man trusting himself to make a sound. Soon only Lorna, Horatio and Archie, the Officer of the Watch, remained. And immediately began his pacing with a slow deliberation and a measured pace, leaving his two friends to their silence. It remained uncomfortably unbroken for a few more moments, but for the sound of Archie's shoes on the deck, when instantaneously every man it seemed, below decks, burst into shouting and frantic discourse, which seared up to the M'men's ears through the square-holed gratings. 

Lorna gave Horatio a sheepish grin as a clear: "Bloody hell, and a lass all along - to think! Well, didn't I says ter ye, t'was always too pretty for a feller!" could be heard above the rest of the din. 

"Styles?" She mouthed the name through her smile. Horatio nodded, but his face retained its stony grimness and her smile quickly faded. His face was thoughtful. "I wouldn't blame yer if you were angry with me, the Lord knows you have enough right to be." His only response was a bitter chuckle. Neither spoke, and Horatio brought his dark eyes to meet hers.

"How long has he known?" He spoke softly, making no indication towards their companion, but Lorna knew whom he meant. She didn't try to avoid the question.

"Since the capture of the _Lucille-Mariette._" His nod accepted her answer, but still his face was un-emotive. 

"Long time." His voice, too, betrayed nothing. She couldn't tell if he was angry, so she asked him. He didn't speak for a few moments, his face still blank, devoid of emotion. It was almost a relief when he answered slowly and deliberately. "I'm trying to be angry; I really should be angry, but…" His eyes were imploring. "I'm believing you had a very good reason for not telling me." His eyes flicked towards Archie's still retreating back, before he could stop himself.

"If it helps: I never told him, he found me out." He looked at the floor, a sigh of relief just escaping his barely open lips as she answered his unasked question.

"I'm glad to hear that." When his eyes rose to meet hers again, they had a glint of their former mischief. "I'm glad you're a girl. I was getting rather worried about the two of you - you know, the tavern?" Archie had just walked past within earshot and struck out at him a little to sharply than to be playful before walking on, but Horatio dodged it and neither he nor Lorna noticed. She only being capable of a little ineffectual stammering, her face aflame like the candles on a Christmas tree.

"That wasn't… We aren'… I don't… I never… I mean…" She gave up in her fluster as Horatio only laughed. "I don't know what I mean." His laughter subsided slowly. When he spoke his voice was deadly earnest

"Today was the first time I've seen you speak to him since." She looked away then; out to sea. Horatio wasn't fool enough not to know when to change tack in the conversation. "I think I'm owed a lengthy explanation, don't you? My Lady? She looked up sharply to reprimand him for the formality, but then she realised.

"Yes, of course Horatio. But before anythin': my name is Lorna."

"Pleased to meet you Lorna." Archie as he turned about to resume pacing along the other length of the ship in the semi-darkness, saw two hands shake. Smiling a bitter smile he resumed his march.


	19. Cutting the Gordian knot

Chapter 19

A few weeks passed on, to be lost among the grains of sand in the hourglass of Time. With the good relations between Lorna and the forgiving Horatio greatly restored, the frigid silences between Archie and herself almost completely dispelled and the _Indefatigable_ returned to its normal conditions as much as was possible under the circumstances, the atmosphere surrounding Lorna was greatly up lifted. At that was also partly due to the liberation from her bindings, and the natural return to her country's lilting strains. The freedom from the weight of her secret was an amazing release. A great storm cloud seemed lifted from the back of her mind, which was burdened enough in her opinion with the thoughts of her ever-approaching mission.

She had always been well-liked by the crew, especially by her division, and well recognised as an able seaman, so after the initial shock she was readily re-instated as a member of the ship's great hierarchical community. The men spoke to her with the same ease as they always had done, and with the same respect as had always been due to her rank. But they were soon, much to Lorna's undeniable relief, to stop halfway through their lewd joking when she was around, and were men enough to even look a trifle abashed. Every soul seemed completely unaware that she had listened to much the same as a boy, without any major discomfort or displeasure. The absence of these obscenities were hardly missed for their humour, as they were now confidently replaced by those braver souls who wolf-whistled, much to her consternation, when sure no other officers were in the immediate vicinity. She, herself, hadn't the heart to stop them.

Every man would chivalrously step aside to create a passage, where before she had to fight a way to the mids' birth and every morning as she walked out on deck, the assembled crew would greet her with courteous hailed choruses of "Good morning, miss" and "Mornin' ma'am!" To which she would grin a reply, and then move on to supervise her division. They now invariably stopped at her approach trying to look as neat as possible and to give her their greetings with every man's hat in their hands, before they were told, somewhat firmly, to: "Look lively! About your work!"

There was still a considerable amount of gossip and speculation, but none of it unkind or unjust. The crew simply looked on, knowing winks and smiles to be found on every face, as they watched the slow reconciliation between Archie and Lorna. The story about the tavern had spread fast, though none were presumptuous enough to think that anything had actually happened between the two. Yet nevertheless they watched Archie's face light up with happiness whenever she had spoken to him and how he surreptitiously watched her as she worked with her division, or walked the decks to deliver some message. But none of the men knew how he was feeling; to have his hearts rent into parts, and as the fragments sprang together at her every smile, the constant reminder that she was out of reach ever-threatened his bruised muscle's newly-formed fragile bonds.

The mess table was soon back to its gossiping, jocular self, and with much encouragement from the other mids, Lorna was forced once again to recount her tale. Heather even made a dramatic of pulling a stool out for her, upon which, playing along, she graciously seated herself to unanimous guffaws. But as she seated herself the laughter faded from her eyes, as she realised that Archie, and not Heather, should have been the one to make such a gesture. It was just another reminder of the barrier that was still raised between them.

Archie just stood in silence, leaning against the partition wall, it seemed to her almost trying to envelop himself in the shadows. As it was half his face was hidden in the darkness, enough so that she couldn't see the white mark left on his lip from where he had bitten down to keep it from trembling. He watched her, almost transfixed as laughed and joked, to him it seemed wholeheartedly with others. He shut his eyes to shut her out from his mind - but even then her image swam mockingly before him in the blackness. 

He knew that he was daring to love her, a Lady, of wealth and Property - no matter what she tried to pretend to herself. In her heart she was a Lady, no one can wholly escape her birth. And should she look at him in the way that he had prayed she would, she would find him unworthy as he found himself every night as he dreamt of her. "The daughter of a Lord and the scum of London's most disreputable alehouses." It was enough to turn sour said from even the most liberal of mouths.

But at least they had started to re-build their friendship, though the attack of her friendly indifference was almost more painful then her running from his sight. Because now he was tortured by Hope. He cursed her under his breath, he cursed that one night of revelation, he cursed anything and everything and not least himself. Cursing himself for falling in love. Of all the women, the girls: There she was, sitting just before him, so innocent as not to realise that without her jacket the flimsy home-spun shirt did little to protect her modesty. Not realising that all the men in the room had eyes darting downwards before looking away in embarrassment.

He loved her and he was a fool to do so. But he would not be fool enough to let their friendship go too. The walls she had built between them still stood strong even though she had she had voluntarily spoken to him for the first time since that night; he couldn't bear her coldness any longer. Archie resolved to talk to her that night, and if she would not listen then so be it.

***

It was late, outside the moon's incandescent globe hung in the spectral clouds of darkness, and the inhabitants of HMS _Indefatigable_'s midshipmen's birth stood in one yawning host to make their way to the sleeping birth. The girl had lingered behind slightly to snuff out the guttering candle on the table. It was when she too began to make her way through the dimly lit corridor to the hammocks that he stopped her; he reached out and snatched her arm, abruptly halting her advancement. She tried to struggle free, writhing in his grip but he pinned her to the spot. She was considerably smaller yet it still took all his strength to hold her still.

"Please Lorna, you must listen to me! I understand why you don't want to know me, but you must listen! I cannot bear to fight." She stopped struggling then, breathing hard from the effort, her grey eyes locked onto his. He almost could not speak as he saw her, so helpless in his arms, and with such a hurtful look on her bloodless face cutting into his very soul. He gulped and plunged ahead. "I'm sorry." The look did not change, reproachful and afraid. "I'm so sorry, Lorna. I took advantage of you and I betrayed our friendship and your trust. I wasn't in my right mind - a poor excuse I know…" He trailed off. "I just want you to know that you mean so much more to me than that." His face bore the honest low of a man speaking true to his heart.

Lorna had struggled so hard to avoid this confrontation; afraid that things would be said that could never be retracted, afraid that things would be said to shatter their friendship forever. Yet now she was here, alone with him and all the worry was apropos nothing. He had not condemned or obligated, just been the gentlemen he always was… Her mind went blank as she felt his cool assuaging lips upon her cheek.

"Friends?" The sound of his soft voice made her eyes widen to overwhelmed saucers. She couldn't manage more than a breathless murmur.

"Friends." He released her then, and together they went into the dormitory. 

***

The sleeping birth soon hushed at her entrance, a nervous cough here or clearing of throat there. It took a few moments for her to realise what their discomfort was about. Her mouth formed a small 'o' before she spoke.

"Oh come on! It was just the same when you thought I was a boy!"

"Erm… not quite, Lorna." It was Horatio who had spoken, standing to one side looking just as uncomfortable as the rest. Though she was glad that he had used her given name, the others all seemed far to daunted by her title; a general obligation to call her 'milady' or 'ma'am'. But now even he stood awkwardly abashed. 

"Oh for crying out loud, I'll change in the corridor! And pray a lobster doesn't come along!" Not all the expressions she could see looked entirely satisfied with this idea but it was grudgingly accepted as no alternative immediately presented itself. She grabbed her nightshift and went outside into the draughty passage. 

During the considerable rustling and tumult inside, Horatio took advantage of their close proximity and unlikelihood of being overheard, to whisper in Archie's ear,

"I take it you've done your grovelling then?" Archie merely smiled and nodded. "Well it's about time!" After they had all changed into their night attire, and Lorna had hesitantly ventured that they were decent through the door, there was a widespread quest for respective hammocks.

Promptly, as it had been the same every night previous, the birth was muffled in gloom. The only sounds straying through the air were the prolonged creaking of the ship's timbers, the distant sound of the waves breaking on her hull, the irregular breathing that eventually settled into the harmonious cacophony of deep slumberous sighs, and the occasional snore. Whoever else lay awake gazing up to the shadowed timbers above she could not say, but once again Lorna found herself awake to the silence of her own thoughts. Even Archie, to her left, submitted to his agonising dreams. 

Her thoughts, now tripping over themselves in their hasty trails through her mind, were more confused than ever. The implications of that kiss? Was she truly more to him than just a friend? More to him than the easy seduction she had at first feared? And even if he did… **love **her? She was hesitant to use the word even in her own troubled mind. No that kind of love, as a man loves a woman and she loves him in return, was something too foreign to her being; something she was not ready to even contemplate yet - not even in her dreams. How could someone feel and want to feel something so completely out of their own control? No, it was not for the present…

But eventually even she succumbed to the night and its host of fitful dreams, for the dawn would bring the start of a new venture


	20. Cutting loose

Chapter 20

His Majesty's Cutter _Tenacious _was certainly a beautiful little ship. Quite old-fashioned with a very square stern and short, high bows. Her figurehead was some slender sea nymph with flaming red hair, bearing a sword in one gilt hand and a shield in the other, both peeling and salt-attacked with the dark grain of the wood emerging beneath. As the waves dipped around her, Lorna could just glimpse, at intervals, the green, barnacled features of her hull. But despite the little cutter's age, she was as clean and trim as anything she could have hoped for with a new brace of sails aloft and a fresh orange stripe painted across the black curve of her bows.

Lorna's critical eye was soon satisfied: she was a fast, manoeuvrable vessel, though perhaps prone to unsteadiness on the swell, and ideal for the task before her. Her eyes clouded over momentarily, though within a blink her distracted thoughts were pushed to the back of her mind, and a stray lock of curling fringe to behind her ear. She shifted her weight slightly as she leant forward on the taffrail. She looked down to the teeming main deck, where man after man swarmed from clerk to clerk, in an effort to fill out the necessary administration that would allow them to make way with the evening tide. Cartloads of supplies were being hauled aboard on great lengths of anchor cable swung from the booms. 

The cutter's crew would be small - Sir Edward had allowed Horatio's division and her own to be transferred aboard from the _Indy_. And here she found herself Captain, on her own quarterdeck, acutely aware of every movement made below and the presence of two figures flanking her either side. Archie and Horatio stood casually at ease, their hands clasped behind their dark blue jackets, buttons gleaming in the sunlight, white duck-trousered legs standing squarely apart and their black cocked hats worn 'fore 'n' aft'. As she stood between them, Lorna keenly felt the smooth press of an admiralty envelope pressed against her breast bone. She could barely repress a smug grin at the weight of it.

"You can get that self-satisfied expression **off **your face, madam!" Archie acquired a look of pained indignation, not mirrored in his dancing eyes. "A lieutenant, by god! If I did not know better, I would say this was your way of gloating! Enjoying the sense of power?" Leaning forward, his smirking face looking across her to Horatio, he scrunched his face into a theatrical wink. Keeping his voice carefully monotone, Horatio almost drawled his contribution. 

"And now you're dragging us into whatever half-cracked first mission you've got planned - most unsporting of you, Lorna, I should say." His sallow face remained completely deadpan, to match his voice. If there was any bitterness, she could not detect it.

"Oh very subtle, gentlemen! And Horatio, you know that you're looking forward to your own ship." Once again deliberately talking across her, Archie spoke in a conspiratorial whisper made much more difficult by the smile.

"Women, eh? You an I both know perfectly well that it is in fact **her **ship and she has no intention of sharing her at all!" As Horatio began to nod emphatically, with a deliberately injured expression Lorna could only sigh and roll her eyes as she turned back from them to the mechanical workings below. For a second she craned forward, a scowl wiping away the smile.

"Styles! Belay that at once!" She roared over the taffrail.

***

As the ship swung over the foaming waves, the golden flame flickered over its dirty tallow sending the shadows dancing about the captain's cabin. The trio sat about a table, which stood in the centre of the pool of guttering radiance cast by the solitary lamp. Horatio moved slightly in his seat in order to reach for another. There was a brief pause, and a barely audible crackle before another wick spluttered into life and the room began to brighten.

"I'm sorry I can't tell you any more. It's a precaution you see. It's not that I don't trust you… Or any of the men; I do. It's just that if the plan were to fail I could have you know of it and be guillotined as spies." Lorna noticed Archie's face pale ever so slightly. "Perhaps I have already told you too much for what's good for you." Lorna's tone was too solemn to be laughed off as mere melodrama.

"We understand." He spoke bravely, forcing his eyes to meet hers. Horatio's face remained unchanged as he nodded slightly to approve the sentiments expressed on his behalf.

"I understand the orders… but what are we to do when we are captured?" His dark eyes betrayed no emotion as he spoke, though Archie's lip was beginning to blanch where he was nibbling it. Lorna reclined back into her chair for a moment, before replying as promptly as possible: it was a question she had been expecting.

"Yes… The Admiralty was… not entirely clear on this point, though I have interpreted the orders thus: attempt escape. At every opportunity that presents itself you should attempt to break out and return to England. However, and this is me saying this so pay attention, do not risk lives! If an escape is impossible, then I am aware that there may be other means by which I can affect your liberty. And once again, more than that I am not able to disclose." A reassuring smile was the best mask she could find to remove the horrified expression from Archie's stricken countenance. Lorna fought the urge to kiss Horatio when he produced a matching grin even if it was, if possible, even more artificial than her own weak attempt. 

"That'll hardly be necessary. We shall escape." Lorna could not help but admire his calm assurances of success. Even she had doubts as to odds on her own survival. Archie remained silent; bearing an expression that seemed to imply he was savouring some particularly sour taste in his mouth. She shook her head in disgust.

"Oh for heavens sake, Archie. We haven't **even **left port yet! Please, in the name of the mother, get that look off your face before you make me lose me nerve as well! Now, let's get above decks and this little beauty under way!"

As Horatio and Lorna followed Archie's retreating back through the gloomy corridor, a look of foreboding passed between them.


	21. The first crusade

Chapter 21

With a fair wind and a calm sea, as Styles would say, HMS _Tenacious _skimmed across the green ocean, dipping and rising, like a pelican in search of fish. To the wheeling gull above, an emissary of the proximity of France far better than any glimpse of coastline, what looked like two minute dolls could be glimpsed on the quarter deck - one as upright and unmoving as a statue, the other anxiously pacing to and fro before the wooden balustrade. Upon closer inspection, our aerial observer would notice the look of anxiety upon the face of the rapidly striding Archie Kennedy, though it was the other who spoke:

"Archie, if you do not stop your pacing, the men will become as nervous as you." Archie came to an abrupt halt facing away from his friend. At first he glowered at his feet, blonde brows knitted upon his forehead, before turning to face the man who had spoken.

"Nervous? Who says I'm in the least bit nervous?" He coughed, "and even if I was, Horatio, I shouldn't be ashamed. I know you don't like this any more than I. It can't be long before some blasted Frog spots us, takes us for a sitting duck, and there'll be no going back from there…"

"She'll be fine - "

"She will NOT be FINE!" He coloured even before the words had fully come out of his mouth. But since Horatio showed no signs of responding he continued, speaking bitterly to the floor. "She's below decks now, you know, in the leg irons. That's dangerous enough as it is! What if we're holed? She can't swim with those monstrosities on! And if were not… What next? They'll see she's a girl soon enough, but will they believe that revolutionary escapee drivel? And what about us, for mercy's sake… If we're stuck in that gaol, for the rest of the war or worse: discovered? She'd be guillotined for sure. How the hell can you be so calm?"

There was a moment's awkward silence before he spoke again, to apologise. Horatio just brushed him off with a wave of his hand. He knew his friend's propensity to panic; though it was reassuringly not about himself this time! Unfortunately, he didn't have many words of pacification - the same thoughts had been running through his own mind for the last two days and nights in a turbulent array of ghastly pictures. In silence, Horatio returned his brown eyes to the horizon and before long the heavy sound of boots resuming their course upon the planking could be heard behind him…

It was quiet below; even the roaring of water was muffled by the walls of wood that imprisoned her on all sides, on board her own ship. It had been over three hours she had been sitting there, the metal cuffs weighing down on her ankles and wrists like lead weights. It felt as though her fragile bones would crack under their pressure any moment, but she ignored it… And real prisoner of the English would have had to suffer no less a fate, and without her surety of release. She drummed her fingers absently from their position on her knees. They must have been spotted by now. A tiny cutter sailing parallel to the coastline unprotected, who wouldn't take the bait? A convoy could easily have left them behind; there was no hint of danger to any passing French frigate - just an easy victory.

She pushed the felt cap of the revolution lower over eyes and leant back against the dark panelling behind her, staring through the grate above… Her last musing thought before the sound of shouting and running footsteps rang down from above, was the grimace of pain on Archie's sweet face before he snapped the padlock tight on her legs. She grinned with anticipation,

"Here we go…"

The moment the canvas sails had sprouted over the horizon like an ugly rose, the decks had become a blur of confused men and commands, or so it seemed to Archie screaming his own set of instructions from below the mizzenmast. The Frigate, with the wind full behind her, was bearing down on their helpless vessel like a grotesquely gaping shark upon a drowning child. He heard Horatio bellowing at the gun crew and managed a weak smile: A child that would at least go down fighting. A black cannonball executed a slow parabola through the air before landing with a crash on the Frigate's fore deck, as it came into firing range. He saw with horror, blue eyes widening, her gun ports start to open in retaliation, a grisly succession of little clicks - the shark grinned before the kill…

The French monster pulled along side, raking the helpless cutter from end to end with her obtuse bows. Archie felt the timbers shiver and groan beneath him as his feet gave way. And then it was chaos… Men scattered to take on whatever came at them as what seemed like a hundred ropes swung in from all directions to drop their heavily armed burdens on _Tenacious' _decks. A giant appeared before him, at least 6"5 and grinning a mouth full of metal. From one hand protruded a glittering cutlass, in the other was being hefted a butcher's axe. Archie ducked, and felt the whistle of sliced air above his head before his hat went flying.

To describe a battle requires poetry, something, which at that moment Archie felt he lacked as waves of adrenaline washed over him. His mind could only relay back dull flashing images as he fought: Fighting… Screaming on all sides… Death… Blood… His own? His last vision before his head slammed into the deck below and his world dissolving was that of a Frenchman supporting the limping French prisoner from below, his dark curls protruding from under the red felt cap reminding him very much of someone he knew.

He awoke dizzy and nauseous, his head resting on cold stone and a blur of shadows dancing before his eyes. He lay still waiting for the painful throbbing at his temples to abate somewhat before attempting to rise. The blurs began to solidify into a stone chamber; flickering red from the torches hung in their high brackets. About him he could just discern his crew mates in varying degrees of sentience and uprightness, the glint of chains stretching between them and the heavy iron rings embedded into the walls. He rolled onto his back, wincing at cracking of his vertebrae. Something sticky and red dripped from his shirt to the floor, but he only felt numbness. A silhouette appeared above him in a mass of black curls, temporarily blotting out the light.

"Hereto?" The curls shifted, to be replaced by the rugged outline, reminding him distinctly of a gargoyle. He could hear a muffled conversation passing over him.

"Bad, sir?"

"He'll live, Styles." Then it was just jumbles of words as Archie desperately tried to remember what had happened since he had been beaten down. He had awoken three times prior to this but the images were very dark in his mind and insubstantial. The first was of a cramped space, the weight of shackles and a thin man shouting something in a language he couldn't understand. The second was on a boat; a small boat with oars dipping on either side and the cry of a gull. The hazy shape of land loomed large before him, then blackness.

The last time he had awoken was in a hall, empty but for a small bureau at the far end, and a small man shifting papers. He could remember feeling rough arms supporting him on either side, and the glint of a bayonet at his throat. Voices: "Citizen, Justice of Calais", "Prisoner"… The small form of a boy in white duck trousers being pushed towards the desk, the red hat low over his face. The hat being pulled away, curls falling contrived about the pallid face. The Justice of the Dock's mouth hanging open. He remembered the thought: "Lorna!" But no sooner had his lips parted to voice it, than a hand had been clamped over his mouth, and he had succumbed to the dark again.


	22. The road to Paris

Author's note: Heya, I haven't written in a while so forgive me the time it takes to get back into it… This chapter is going to be a bit summarised. Soz. Just explaining in case you think it runs past too quickly. Anyway, I hope you like it. R n R!!!

Lots of love Lady- H.

Chapter 22

From Lorna's point of view, incarcerated in the back of the jolting carriage with the burly blue-jacketed guards and a sour-faced man dressed sombrely in black and sporting a pair of round wire-framed spectacles, everything was going splendidly to plan. Though it was feat of endurance to keep the startled look of fear plastered across her face, when inside she was already somersaulting with the ease of it all and the rush of exhilaration at being already flying along the road, which could only be taking her to Paris. She nestled back into the padded seat, drawing her face into shadow so that she could better inspect her travelling companions and reflect on the day's events.

Sitting in the bows of _Tenacious, _she had expected Horatio to surrender sooner than he did, but that couldn't have been helped. She knew he would want to put on a good show for her sake, though she prayed there wouldn't have been too many casualties on their side. From then on it had all just been a formality. The frogs had found her, suitably excited and straining for freedom, in the hold. She had been released, taken aboard the French ship, the _Sainte-Lazarre, _expounding the tale of her capture by the English in volubly romanticised French, and they had set sail for the coast of Brittany and then north - to Calais - without delay. They hadn't suspected a thing. She could only have imagined in her wildest dreams the look of shock on the Frenchmen's faces as her hat had been removed. Lorna had made sure to pout as her shock of hair had tumbled loose. She could not risk a mistake - She wouldn't put it past anyone to miss the hint. But as it turned out she needn't have worried - the shock of realisation was painted across every face.

She had only been able to gamble a cursory glance at her friends who stood heavily guarded at the side of the hall, and she was pleased to see them all also looking dutifully shocked at her revelation. Except Archie. It took nearly all her efforts to keep a straight face as she saw him hanging limply between Horatio and Mathews, his hair matted to his face with crimson blood. Lorna turned back to the Minister of Justice before her, the official of the docks, and smiled. Before the poor man could utter a word, hand clutched to his heart in shock, she had already fallen to her knees to shower him with thanks for rescuing her so gallantly from those "_cochons - les anglais_!"

She had immediately been placed under guard, not before being provided with a modestly drab dress and starched cap. The insolent pigs had stayed to watch as she had changed, snatching away her shirt as she had tried to hold it up as a meagre cover for her chest, but she said nothing, just turned to the wall whilst sliding the rough linen down over her skin.

Paris. Not many Englishwomen would have envied her her situation, but to Lorna it was the best outcome she could have wished for. It wasn't hard to deduce what was going on: they suspected her as an escaped aristocrat and were bringing her to tribunal in Paris, perhaps before the infamous Robespierre himself. But she wasn't in the least bit afraid - she had her lies well prepared and knew what she had to do…

The coach bounced and rattled over the rain-greased cobblestones that formed the twisting alleyways of France's figurehead city. The rain attacked the earth and the carriage-top so viscously that it seemed that God, himself, was trying to whip away the air of grime and the stench of blood that hung like a smog above the crooked little houses of _les pauvres_. Lorna could only catch glimpses, from her shadowed perch, of the views outside, but one image that seemed almost burned onto her staring retinas was that of a round square thronged with tiers of seating displaying a thousand jeering, pox-scabbed faces, which all screamed down at the tiny wooden platform to its centre. It was upon this insignificant little rostrum that, erect and malevolent, the jagged outline of the guillotine was starkly silhouetted against the low-hanging clouds. And it was with a fascination that Lorna's eyes followed it in their progress across the square and just as the carriage was whipped around the corner, her last sight of the monstrosity was that of the glittering blade, slick with blood, being hoisted jerkily into the rain-saturated atmosphere.

With the grim reminder of the consequences of failure lost to sight, Lorna turned back in to face her companions. The man-in-black's features were crinkled into what could only be a leering smile. Lorna made sure her face remained impassive as she met his gaze full on, and to her satisfaction it was he who flinched to direct his be-spectacled gaze at his black boots. The soldiers fingered their weapons but made no move to use them.

And so the journey continued, until the coach rattled to a jerking halt and Lorna felt herself thrown unceremoniously into the arms of yet another blue-coated frog, to be dragged brutally into the lair of the dragon, himself - the stone fortresses of Robespierre and the French tribunal.

Pushed and shoved, with her captor stealing pinches in places she would blush to admit, Lorna was herded into a small anteroom. Her guard did not forget to truss her hands together with some frayed chord, so tightly that her flesh blanched, and kiss her cheek bruisingly with his stubbled jaw before he quit the room; leaving her alone with two red spots of anger glowing where her dimples would normally have been and an irrepressible urge to kick the oaf in the small of his retreating back. The door slammed shut and she was conscious of the sight she must look with her tendrils of fringe once again free of the cap's constraints and her rough dress already raw and crumpled from the journey.

She waited in silence for what seemed an interminable amount of time before another door opened in front of her. Lorna could just glimpse a long table, behind which sat a row of high-backed chairs and swimming faces. She walked stiffly through the opening, her booted feet clicking uncomfortably on the polished flooring, her shoulders pulled back by the bindings. It was not even necessary for her to feign the look of angry indignance that was now radiating from her every feature. She glowered at her judges, whose faces she realised had seemed to be floating as each of the men, for that is what they were, were dressed solely in black, like bitter priests. She felt no fear of them as they stared at her, just held her head high and gazed coolly back.


	23. A dark stranger

Chapter 23

The silence stretched like a gulf between them, charged like static, as Lorna shifted her gaze evenly from one face to the next. There were five in all, three old and two young, though it was one of the younger two that arrested her gaze. The first man sat centrally, his jowly face resting upon the lace masterpiece that formed his tightly knotted cravat. The whiteness of it made his sallow skin look all the more waxen, and it seemed to Lorna that she was staring at something more dead than alive, with its sunken cheeks and deep hollows of shadow from which glittered a pair of eyes, their colour indistinguishable in their gloomy wells. His head was topped with a tightly curled wig, as black as the rest of his attire. A wig which, Lorna suspected, was there to disguise a somewhat lacking head of hair - or so she surmised from the scarcity of his eyebrows.

This man had to be Robespierre.

But although Lorna knew this was the man that controlled her fate, this was the man with the key to the guillotine… it was not this man to whom her eyes were drawn. The other sat at the far right extremity of the heavy table, and though bearing certain similarities to the corpse-like façade of Robespierre there could not have been a more opposite impression. His skin was pale as alabaster, so he too gave the impression of death. Not the decaying ghoulery of his companion, but of a figure carved lifeless from stone - so pale and so still did he hold his head. His cheekbones were high and French, with a thin nose and sharp jaw on a long elegant neck. His eyes, half-closed beneath sweeping black lashes and charcoal brows, were as black as beetles. And his hair, for indeed it was his own, was of the same colour and cropped short above his collar. He was beautiful, and it was a long moment in which they stared at each other, both haughtily holding their chins aloft.

"Attention, Mademoiselle, en tout vous dites! Vous ne pouvez pas le savoir encore, mais je tiens la décision si vous vivez ou mourez. Nous vous croyons un traître à votre pays - une aristocrate! Et si vous êtes une aristocrate, votre vie est confisquée à la république! Qu'est-ce que c'est vous dites au ce, mademoiselle?" [Caution, Mademoiselle, in all you say! You may not know it yet, but I hold the decision as to whether you live or die. We believe you a traitor to your country - an aristocrat! And if you are an aristocrat, your life is forfeit to the republic! What do you say to that, Mademoiselle? ] The voice that shattered the stillness ground like glass beneath a pestle. Lorna snapped her gaze back to the vulturuous figure of Robespierre.

"Rien! [Nothing!]" (For the sake of your sanity and my terrible French, the rest of the dialogue shall be continued in English) This time it was Lorna who decided the silence was stretching on far too long to keep the ball in her court: "I am a faithful servant of the revolution!" She tried to inject something akin to religious fervour into her voice.

"Who are you? Name!" It was a bark, not a question. Under normal circumstances she would not have dignified it with a reply, but that was upbringing shining through. She swiftly repressed all pride in her voice to manufacture an image of meek docility.

"Josephine Dubois. My father was a merchant sailor, he bought a share in the colonies, an honest man, and loyal to the republic!"

"Silence! Where do you think you are? Loyal he might have been, but he didn't spare any time to teach you any manners! Your mother, what of her? Repondez vite!" His speech was akin to a volley of musket balls, as he battered her defences. It was hard to remember that this wasn't even the official tribunal. Lorna just stared back in defiance, and shot back her own round of fabrication.

"Dead, monsieur - the sweating sickness. My father, too! That is why I have come here. As to my manners, I spent most of my life on ships around rough sailors - I am sorry if it offends you." That much was true. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "When they died, I could not stay out there alone, a young girl! So I hid myself in the clothes of a young revolutionary - you must understand, for no treacherous reason, but to preserve my chastity, for sailing at war no one can be trusted.

"And I was right! For what did happen, but her ship was attacked and sunk round Cape St. Vincent, the English port, and our crew were taken as prisoners of war by the English, though the rest were taken aboard the larger vessels in the convoy. They did not recognise me for what I am, and I praise God, for I know how the English treat their women. Death is better! Citizen Monsieur Robespierre, I have sailed this far all for the love of the republic - I can help you win this war."

For several moments Robespierre simply looked at her, un-smiling and un-frowning. Lorna could only hope her own voice was so devoid of any emotion by which she might betray her true loyalties. This was the moment when her life's gossamer thread was running bare - she knew that this man's decision could spell success and life, or torture, base humiliation and death. The guard who had bound her was an indication of the latter fate that awaited her so uncertainly in the shadows of her future. She sucked in her breath, calm as the man who sat before her, and waited for him to speak. She was acutely aware of the pallid youth's dark gaze boring onto the side of her face, as he leant forward from his high-backed seat, shifting with uncomfort. Robespierre's lips parted and the room listened:

"You, mademoiselle," Lorna never flinched as she looked straight before her, though the pain in her arms was intensifying from the brutal chord, and his voice sounded out devoid of emotion to bounce of the panelled walls. "Have suffered much! And I should hope that our beautiful Republic should never be ungrateful to those who which to defend her." He continued, his voice frigid and disparaging, "I feel nothing but pity and contempt for you, a woman, too weak to fight for your country, un-fit for politics. But you want to help your country, nonetheless, and I admire that! Leave us to our council! A sentry will cut your bonds. Though do not stray too far - I will have to find you suitable accommodation… Do not forget I have spared your life, you owe me much!" Lorna lingered, aware that the gaze to her left was still unwavering, but the sallow face spoke again: "Go!"

Lorna waited in the anteroom, rubbing the red wheals, which had sprung up on her flesh where the waxed rope had dug deep. With the doors shut tight about her she turned to the long gilded mirror, which hung extravagantly on the silk draped wall. She looked at her reflection, something she had not had opportunity to do since that moment in the tavern a long time afore. It was ironic to see herself, her hair limp and flaccid in greasy ringlets beneath the cap and her dark brows cutting a dark line across her forehead from where they had not been plucked for ages. Many black smears and spots of dirt and grease blemished her pallidity. She was thinner too, small hollows appearing beneath her cheekbones from a diet of weevils and broth. Even her eyes seemed darker, more frightened. Only her nose was the same: small and stubbed and unattractive, the worst irony of all.

Lorna looked at herself, all hint of any prettiness she might have had lost to wear and strain, realising she didn't give a damn. She gave a lopsided grin into the glass. Her reflection grinned back.


	24. Quiet before a storm

Warning: There maybe some switching points of view, later. Sozzie. I had a bit of self-indulgence with this one I'm afraid - lots of musing and introspection but **puts on high-minded look of the artiste pauvre** it is for my art!

Chapter 24

As Lorna reclined languorously like a sun-warmed cat beneath the pristine white sheets of the elegantly mahogany-carved four-poster, she yawned and smiled to herself. If she had ever, in her rebellious youth, deigned to question the good Catholic doctrine that had been so much a part of her upbringing as to linger like a scorched brand on her flesh, she might have believed in Fortune. Fortune, not just in abstract terms, but as a woman. She smiled at the thought and let her imagination savour it a little longer - it had been so long since she had had the time for her own idle ruminations.

What would this capricious goddess be like? Lorna thought: beautiful, yes. She would be everything that she was not: tall and boyish of stature, though with bosoms quite ample beneath her immodest attire. She would have a rosy complexion with a flaxen cascade of hair down her back though the sweeping lashes that framed her romantic eyes would be dark, like hers. The nose would be discreet and straight, and the eyes themselves sympathetic and blue. But like all such Beauties, in Lorna's suspicious mind, she would be vain and inconstant as the late-blooming rose, loath to betray her thorns. For as fickle as any whore with her treacherous side-ways glances, ready to be romanced by any passing stranger or whim, she would as soon betray them as fold them into her soft embrace.

As she watched the dust particles being dissected above her in a beam of tangential light from the high window, Lorna wondered what it was that made the Goddess smile so favourably upon her. She smiled: or maybe it was the illusory James that had so captured her imagination, for Lorna could not think for what reason she had ended up here, of all places in Paris, if not by pure unadulterated Luck. The bed, and indeed herself lying on it, was in no other place than the magnificent lodgings of the famed revolutionary leader Louis St juste, whom she had been instructed to seek out… But Lorna was not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As she snuggled deeper, gratified by the lack of watch-bells that had come to punctuate even her deepest sleeps and call her to duty at all times of night, she began to dwell on the fine furniture around her. It made her raise an eyebrow at this man, her host, who professed to believe in the value of equality and a desire to liberate the poor, yet surrounded himself with all this opulent luxury. A stray thought wandered across her consciousness: if it weren't for all this hypocrisy, I would join the revolution myself! But it was a traitorous thought and she quickly repressed it back into shadows.

But the idea would not so easily be discarded after it had so recently been acknowledged and a new though was formed from it: that's why I ran away from home. I couldn't bear their upper-class constraints and freely wealded power - a power that should belong to everyone, to good men, like Archie. Lorna frowned at the name - she couldn't afford to think about him, not at a time like this. If there was one thing that could have prevented her from taking the mission, being sent home in disgrace, it was what happened to her friends: the image of his bloody hair and rolling eyes swam into view.

Much as found dwelling on herself distinctly pointless and not to say the least wantonly self-indulgent, Lorna grudging admitted to her sub-conscious that perhaps this was something she did have to think about and very carefully. And, she reasoned, a little judgement on one's own character could never to any harm if it led to enlightenment and more importantly self-reformation. Lorna would never allow herself to become one of those people too arrogant, or just to ignorant, to see their own failings - and she had enough of them, of that she was well aware. And maybe this was one of them.

The thought was mildly shocking, that maybe her lack of introspection, her brazen tendencies to dash headlong into situations based purely on impulsive need or desire, was merely a way to hide her own inadequacies. She had always been romantic, and maybe it was some romantic view of herself that made her determined to be so strong and ruthless. It was that made her kill and that which made love such a difficult emotion to understand. Passion was one thing, but somehow she could not connect the feeling to another human, not in an amorous sense: loyalty, pride and admiration were all feelings she freely acknowledged and engendered.

Silently she cursed Archie for being the cause of this elusive train of her thoughts, but she instantly regretted the emotion - for all she knew he was dead, as she was lying here in relative safety. Lorna wasn't sure how that made her feel. She felt regret and guilt that it would have been her that would have occasioned his death, certainly, and she would grieve as someone who had lost a best friend. But would it be more than that? He frightened her, with his easy charm and lewd wit that always seemed to leave her stranded. She didn't like that feeling; the power he had in that he was running rings around her with some secret that she could not discover. That was ridiculous - love is free and universal, nothing was stopping her from experiencing it…

But there was. Lorna didn't know what love was, and she was pretty sure that her ideas were very different to Archie's. She had a shrewd idea of what he though love was: a good whore who was willing to please him. Or at least that was all he expected in life. Being around the painted theatres he would have entertained the same romantic illusions of chaste romance as she had, but maybe that was something left for the young. _And the rich,_ he would say.

If only he knew what arranged love meant. But he was a lot older than she was… Maybe he was right and that pure love of the soul she had dreamt of as a child didn't really exist. The thought pained her, but it wouldn't leave. Maybe the easiest thing would be to get it over with… But even the thought made her sick with memories of that stinking tavern and even her first time below decks on the _Indy. _The sights had repulsed her even then, and it wasn't just her Catholic upbringing that was making her feel that way. Lorna rolled onto her stomach and thumped the pillow angrily as she felt tiny beads of salt water blooming at the corners of her eyes.

Another stray thought interrupted her. _Then why does he make you feel so strange? _It was true every time they were together they fought or they laughed or cried, but whatever the emotion was it was always as explosive as powder keg, and it felt the same inside. At the slightest brush with him she felt shocks running from the point of contact all through her body, feelings she couldn't fully control, and that's what she liked least about them. She didn't like people touching her, it always made her feel invaded, every movement an intrusion. And it was no different with him… _Just you're a little more willing to be invaded? And the kiss, don't pretend you didn't enjoy that and for all you know it was mutual… _As hard as she tried, Lorna could not quite stop the flame rising into her cheeks, nor the grin she pressed into her pillow.

__

Thud. Lorna sat up like a ramrod as there came a sound like siege on the door as someone pounded furiously upon the heavy oak, and not a moment after, it had burst open to admit an entourage of billowing ladies, like a full convoy of sails. The rosy-cheeked faces were all eager to help her to her toilet, and into her bath, and into the gown laid out for her. As she was scrubbed and braided, and corseted and perfumed, Lorna could not help but be grateful that the gown was at least of some decent material and not that horrible lice-ridden horror she had been forced into before. It was a plain dark blue with the wide skirts below the nipped in waist, that Lorna could not pretend she had missed being laced into, and felt a sudden pang of yearning for her breaches. She was, however, pleasantly contented to be waited- upon. _At least, _she thought to herself, _with all, this activity you won't have time to linger so idly in your thoughts again. No, _she decided, _I like being in absolute control of myself, no obligations to anyone or anything - that's why I ran away in the first place._

And with that thought still ringing in her ears, Lorna was swept from the room and down the grand staircase.


	25. Unwelcome advances

Chapter 25

Any thoughts of Archie that were still lingering in her mind's eye were immediately banished as Lorna stood at the head of the stairs, her eyes locked on pair of beetle-black eyes which returned her gaze equally unblinking.

It took several seconds for the moment to pass, before Lorna looked between the austere figure of Louis St Juste, her transient guardian, and his companion - the young man, who had looked at her so piercingly from the end of the justice table. She blinked. Louis St Juste was a rather austere gentleman of middle age, with deep premature lines around his dark eyes and a heavily powdered wig settled rather lopsidedly on his high-boned head. She looked between them, and her heart seemed to do some aerobatic dance in her chest: the similarity was too strong than to be just coincidence… Slowly, and trying her best to remember how to be graceful, Lorna descended to meet them.

"Mlle Dubois, est-ce que je peux vous presente: mon petit frere, Baptiste St Juste." The dark eyes never wavered as the graceful figure sunk into a deep bow. Even before Lorna had dipped her own curtsy, she saw how tall he was. Small as she was, the top of her head barely breached his shoulder. As Louis spoke again he was already headed for a door to the left, leaving the two figures silent and immobile, staring at each other. "He is a confirmed revolutionary himself and will perhaps better amuse you that an old man like myself, who is infinitely distracted by matters of Marianne, our angel of the revolution. And indeed duty calls, so I shall leave you two to get better acquainted, god knows Baptiste has been enquiring of you all the way here…" Any further remarks were swallowed as the sturdy door banged behind him.

"And I can assure you any of his replies have managed to do you little justice, Mlle." He raised her hand slowly, somewhat enveloped in his, and with but a fleeting contact brought it to his lips. Not once did his eyes leave hers, and Lorna flashed him a condescending smile.

"I'm sure you try to scare me, monsieur, staring at me so. But be warned I am just as immutable in my courage as in my distaste for compliments." His lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, which didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Spoken like an aristocrat, mademoiselle." The smile froze on her features; their gazes locked in a challenge. But the moment was shattered by the rich sound of his laughter.

A ripple of firelight danced provocatively over the glistening surface of the small table that separated them, as Lorna nestled comfortably deeper into the heavy brocade of the chaise longue and brought the glass languorously to her lips. She reflected how much the richly coloured wine looked like blood as she lowered it back to the tabletop. It had been three months since she had stood alone with his mouth on her hand, and his eyes still turned so piercingly upon hers, three months of luxury and comfort…

Three months, which had seen the documents, she had been sent for, easily acquired and safely tucked into her petticoats and nothing more eventful than that. She looked across at her drinking companion. His eyes, though still unwavering from her face, had permitted themselves to lose their sharp focus and now wore the glazed appearance gained after an afternoon of indolent sunshine and an evening of slothful relaxation in the wine pewter. Holy mother, he was handsome! It had been three months of pleasure, in which he had never left her side. At first she had been convinced it was some ploy to keep her constantly watched, but soon it became evident that even if that was the case, it wasn't merely a sense of duty that kept him there.

Louis had been right in saying his little brother was a fervent revolutionary. Indeed his view of politics sometimes came close to a religious frenzy as he expounded the sins of the nobility that had oppressed his generation and himself since birth, and the extravagant reign of the monarchs. Sometimes it frightened Lorna to see the glint in his eye as he spoke of watching the King and Queen beheaded in the _place de la Concorde, _as though they personally had wounded him beyond clemency. He, unlike his brother, was wholly unselfish in his motives and every moment spent in the luxury of his brother's house was one of perpetual self-castigation as he looked at the follies and corruption of power. His own lodgings were sparce and his suit on close inspection was old and faintly discoloured.

And Lorna listened avidly to his speeches, debating him morally and politically until either of their arguments was heatedly beaten to the ground and he once again lapsed into a proud or disdainful silence. She had soon ceased to find his gaze disconcerting. Indeed it was refreshing to find someone who could meet her own as unflinchingly as he, as well as sharing her proud and reserved nature. As the weeks passed by in discussion, or horseback riding, or strolling, or merely sitting contentedly taciturn in each other's company, Lorna felt herself growing in sympathy of the views of the inhibited, though often impassioned, young revolutionary, and indeed of the arresting Baptiste himself.

"Josephine…" It took her wine-embraced brain a moment to realise he had spoken. She looked down and carefully began to arrange the folds of her dress, knowing how he hated to be ignored. "Josephine." His voice was a little more demanding this time, and she lay down the fabric to meet his eyes.

"Oui, Monsieur?" He sighed in exasperation.

"Josephine, do you not think it is time for you to drop off formalities? Please, it is Baptiste for you." It was strange how nice his voice sounded to her slightly dazed mind.

"Of course, I'm sorry… Baptiste." His smile was a flash of white, as he rose gracefully from his chair. He was always graceful, she noted, despite his height - almost like a dancer. She was aware of his presence beside her on the daybed a moment later and she shifted slightly in her skirts to accommodate him. She felt herself stiffen slightly at his proximity.

"I have wanted to hear you say that for a long time, Josephine. Because over the last three months I could not help feeling a strong attraction to you: you are beautiful and intelligent and witty, and you understand me. I hope I have not offended you in saying this…" It took a few moments after each word's being released for its meaning to sink in. Lorna could only stare at the floor in a state of rigid shock, as she felt his hand move to touch her cheek. Not once in all their discourse had they broached any subject sentimental, or personal. Lorna silently cursed her own incapability to read body language. She could only manage a mute shake of her head to answer him that sent the dark unruly curls of her obstinate fringe bouncing in all directions. He caught one deftly and began to absently twist it between his fingers - in response her body taunted to such as degree as it seemed as though her bones would snap under its own pressure.

He smiled again, this time so close as to send his breath over her face. The last thing she heard, before she felt the pressure of his lips bruisingly on her throat, was almost a whisper: "I love you…" Before she could think she had landed a stinging slap across his exquisite face, and felt her feet carrying her as fast as they possibly could from the room, slamming the door tight behind her.


	26. An Ultimatum is delivered

Lorna's heart rattled erratically beneath the rigid confines of her high-waisted bodice. If her tumultuous thoughts could have gathered long enough to curse Parisian fashions they would surely have done so, but her head was still spinning from the hot intrusion Baptiste St Juste had made on the previously unsullied area of her mouth.

_That's not true: Archie. If anyone did any sullying it was Archie. _Her forehead creased into a frown as the unsolicited thought nudged its way to the fore, but it was swiftly overrun by the hot flush that rose through her body like a rampant flame at the image of Baptiste's stark features emblazoned on her retinas as though doing a seductive dance. _Why, oh why, whenever I engage in these encounters does my mind have to be addled by liquor? _The potency of the dark claret was not quite sufficient to obscure her own recognition of her own mild inebriation, and she repeatedly cursed her inability to focus.

Lying on her bed with the door having been slammed with a sufficiently dramatic crash, or as far she could tell, it being only her first encounter with the bruising games of courting, Lorna let her flint-etched eyes fix on a spot on the filigreed bed canopy above her, in a desperate effort to command her thoughts.

_Do you love him? _The fact that the word 'love' had even occurred in her mind after so short an acquaintance with the man, made Lorna wince as though it was a personal blow to her character – the character of Lady Lorna Hammond, so long suppressed by the freedom of midshipman's breeches. _Oh, am I really that fickle? _But she grimaced as that thought was quickly chased by: _Or am I really that drunk?_ _No_, she dismissed that possibility. This was certainly different to any drink-smothered kindling of passion she may have experienced in the disreputable upstairs accommodations of that tavern.

_Definitely no_. With a pang she realised that the encroaching desire for an intimate acquaintance was perhaps not as foreign as she had at first thought. The unfamiliar feeling of a chaste kiss to her hand and the seductive swish of a gown around her ankles, had rekindled childhood dreams of romance which seemed no less vivid and real than they had when she was but a young girl in Ireland. _Except now I know that's shite. Love's not like that. And why in the name of the Mother did he say I was beautiful, as though I would fall for unashamed flattery like that? _But she **was** falling for it.

But if that was true and true-love was a falsehood, then wasn't this whole thing a farce? _After all, _she thought, _why did I run away in the first place if not to escape a marriage without love? And if there was no such thing then I have done this all for nought…_ Then why did her eyes involuntarily clench shut at the memory of the stunned look in a pair of dark eyes as a pink hand-shaped glow had arisen on an alabaster cheek? A cheek that looked so handsome in retrospect. _No! _A harsh Catholic upbringing immediately stamped down on that mental transgression and Lorna sighed in exasperation. It wasn't love. It hurt to admit it, as it hurts every young girl's heart to realise its own impure motives. It was unashamed, base lust that was causing the heat searing her cheeks. After all he was incredibly handsome…

Lorna groaned as she forced herself to sit up, her horizontal position only exacerbating the swift progress of liquor to her brain. Sitting, it seemed almost immediately to feel better; her hammering pulse seemed to settle a little in her veins. What to do? She did find him attractive, and yes a small part of her had missed the trappings of female attire, but that was all immaterial: she was a **spy**! In response to the admittance the harsh delineated edges of the parchment despatches strained uncomfortably against her girdle and she shifted uncomfortably.

Then suddenly it struck: it hadn't been missed. The documents were the official papers concerning the execution order for the Marquis de Bologna and his wife, the British targets for evacuation and renowned royalists. A prickle of cold traced her spine. She had dallied too long in the comforts of her alias. Stupid. _Why did I volunteer for this suicide? Why did I not think? Because you had no choice, _the voice reason answered calmly. _ You were going to be denounced to your father and drag all your friends down too in your disgrace. That's why. _

And what of her friends? She had barely spared them an idle thought as while she languished in luxury; they languished in some dank cell. Or had the fleet rescued them already? No that was impossible: the attack on the French fort was not for another week. _Another week! _With a guilty pang she realised the prearranged meeting time was drawing uncomfortably closer. If she could not get back in time the fleet would sail without her, assuming the attack was even successful. But she had idled here for far too long already… _Of course! The Admiralty had not expected that I procure the documents with such ease! _And again the clammy panicked thought arose: _too much ease. _But Lorna was never one to give in easily to panic. She had not been afraid when she had volunteered and she would not start now. Or at least that's what she was telling herself.

Lorna rested her forehead against the cold veneer of the bed post in an effort to steady herself. She had been very, very foolish - but the situation could be still salvaged. But now she had to face her chiselled-featured nemesis downstairs. Bitter gall rose in her throat at her own gullibility: how could she fall for a revolutionary? What was she planning on doing exactly? Running off with him and betraying her country? _Or worse, _again the unrecognised fear began to surface: _what if he knows? _She gulped and stood: it didn't do to dwell on what was done and unchangeable. It was now her duty to leave and get back to her shipmates as quickly as possible, and Baptiste would become nothing more than a bittersweet memory of what might have been. Yes. The decision seemed more sensible now that it had been made.

So, her feet led her mechanically down the stairway, to the closed door of the room where she had left him so abruptly just an hour previously. Hastily trying to smooth her rumpled hem she composed her features into an insentient mask and twisted the handle.

He was standing with his back to her, silhouetted black against the dancing firelight revealing his fine build and proud stance. If he had noticed her scrutiny of his back, he gave no sign.

"Baptiste?" Still no response. "Baptiste, je regrette mes actions mais…"

"Josephine." His voice seemed little louder than a faint susurration as he turned to face her, his eyes like still pools of ink in his shadowed face taking in her deliberately blank expression and defiant stance, undermined by her disarrayed dress and flushed cheeks. "You regret your actions and you want me to regret mine, n'est-ce pas? I have shocked you to your virginal core, non? Well, let me shock you further, mademoiselle, by saying that I do not regret it. And neither should you. You despise hypocrites just as much as I, so do not become one: a woman who thinks one way and acts another to trap a man in web like a covetous spider! You wanted my advance – I felt it. Deny it not - you with your coquettish ways and brazen eyes!" Lorna's eyes flashed dangerously as she took I the truth in his words and the challenge in the set of his jaw.

"You wrong me, sir. I feel nothing for you and beseech you to quit your suit for it falls on deaf ears." Nothing on her face reflected the turmoil inside as she faced him, her shoulders set. Their eyes fought a silent battle for a moment before he shifted slowly in resignation. When he spoke again his voice was heavily laced with regret.

"Ah, Josephine. You wound me, and you are wrong to think I give up in my pursuits so easily. I feel you understand my stubborn nature as much as I do myself: a stubbornness it would seem you share in your rejection of me. So you leave me no choice. I would speak plainly with you, which I am sure you will appreciate: you are an aristocrat and you cannot hide it – it is written in every gesture and every turn of phrase, even in the way those court gowns so become you, much to my provocation. And even if you are not one of the petite noblesse, I can denounce you as one as easily as breathe." The import of the words he spoke so sensibly, as though to an ignorant infant, seemed to settle like a cold stone in the pit of her stomach.

"So why don't you?" Lorna was transiently impressed at her own self-control in making her voice stay in the lower registers and not spiral into a frightened squawk, but she didn't dwell on it long. The sound of his laughter cut her short, as it sounded abrupt and cruel from between his perfectly molded lips.

"So very brave – a woman I could truly grow to love. Not even a denial from you though you know you are at my mercy: a fact that I want you to know I am cherishing, ma cherie. It's simple you see: a choice. Submit to me, _My Lady, _or submit to Madame la Guillotine, who I hear is far less discriminate towards her prey than I am being to you. I shall leave you to think, ma belle, and I trust I can anticipate your decision, proud as you are. I do not think I am being supercilious should I think that sharing my head has a considerably greater appeal than death." And with that, and a nod of his dark head, he left and this time it was Lorna left alone in the room, her eyes wide as though she had been struck.


End file.
